I decided it was time to truly make this blog mine. I have tried to protect myself and only post pretty or safe material. It is time to allow and accept all of my life - to stop the running, the hiding. So, what I am publishing next, is a short (yeah, right) sneak-peak at my life from memory to around 5ish. This is a risk, for it will no longer be secret. However, a friend told me it was time to share. So, I will try not to put my running shoes on, and see what begins to happen in this garden of life I need to ponder and determine what its future will be. Deep breath, here goes... I began this story four years ago -


When does the "Age of Understanding" come - twenty-one, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty? Is it possible the understanding of life's whys doesn't exist? My body is fifty now, and I still don't understand the why's of living life or the experiences which happened to it. I wonder if I am the only one in life who ponders the silent worlds, the ones no one should know and if they do, are not allowed to tell. I thought I'd understand these things a long time ago, and yet, no matter how hard I try, I can't. The only thing I have learned is the unspeakable and the "no one should do" still exists. It is a far wilder picture than myself and that scares the hell out of me, far more than my own thoughts on telling do at this moment.

I wonder about life experiences - their values. Do they really make us better people if they are hard? Or is misery for some the way life is designed? Are some people born to suffer so others can measure themselves? And what about a contradictory god head who states commandments and then makes they impossible to obey; yet, without obedience, one will continue to suffer for eternity. I am driven crazy by the cardinal laws which cover most of society: "God is great, God is good" and "Honor thy Mother and Father." It appears damnation is my only eternal option, as I have laid violation to all the laws over the course of my life. But then, I must be in good company, with all the allegations and documentation's, and guilty verdicts of priest playing with there male charges sexually and Jewish Rabbis admitting to how prevalent there knowledge of child abuse is within there own. But then, I don't see any mention of honoring children, except for making sure the little children were brought to Him, and in that case, golly gee!!! it must be excusable.

Ba, ba black sheep, I know it, cause it is me.

Oh, and then there is always the religious aspect to keep me united to these believes "It is a mortal sin to commit suicide, and you shall go to hell." Wow, nothing else matters, one MUST SURVIVE, even if one already lives in hell!!! I must chuckle when suicide is considered a sin, parodying the reasons for doing so. Sometimes suicide can seem a winning situation, but then some priestly heads say "NO, it is a sin." Heck, in long ago days, those that took their own lives weren't allowed to be buried on holy ground. Who cares, how many soldiers are buried under piles of blown up earth? Are they evil? They aren't buried on holy ground. Or, do we consider holy ground that area where humans decide to fight and commit murder against one another all in the name of freedom, God, or the "it belongs to me" syndrome?

If you have dared read this far, you know you aren't dealing with an ordinary mind, rather a mind suffering from some form of mental illness, creating chaos. Either that, or you are listening to the words of a raving manic. The tangents it rides trying to discover life's mysteries which seem so simple to the majority of people and just simply don't exist for me. I giggle as I ponder my delusions - the insane halls of a mind never at rest, and never at peace. If you read further, you will begin to agree with me in this belief of myself. My therapist, who has suffered with the presence of this mind the past 12 years and is probably is self therapy as a result, will undoubtedly disagree with my self diagnose. She is always hoping my reality can be reconvinced into believing I am normal, just having gone through some extraordinary experiences which impede my self esteem and self reality. Anyway, as you read I am totally convinced you will agree with me over my therapist. No one has experiences like I will talk about. Only those who have incredible imaginations invent these scenarios. They just don't happen in real life. And you are probably very right, and that's why I'm always looking for the fairy tale ending, as what was just can't be true - it goes against every heart and mind and soul's ability to believe.

You know, I don't even know where to begin this story. I could tell you when I was born, but who would care? Who would remember? And, is the date even material? I don't think so, after all, to whom is being born, is that date memorable. Certainly not the child, until the child learns presents, cake, and friends make it special. But to a child who that never happens, then the day can be quite memorable-less. My own may not be memorable, accept to the female body birthing me. I was made memorable to her only because I didn't have a penis. Boy, if only for a penis my whole life could have been "memorable," in a sense of positivity. However, for lack of a penis, my life became memorable in its negativity, therefore "memorable-less." I told you this would be the ranting of a imbecile.

So, you might guess the beginning of this story - a child was born without a penis and that really pissed off the female birther, who I will call "The Mother." It is hard when a child comes into the world in all its innocence and vulnerability to be welcomed by overwhelming disappointment - in essence, this mother would have preferred to leave this child behind physically and mentally. However, begin a "good" citizen, this Mother took this child home, to a place I will refer to as "hell." Oh, hell had it's good moments. The father did love the child, but shortly after the birth of the child, the loving father took ill, and eventually went on to die shortly after the child turned three. Since the father was in the hospital most of the last year and a half of his life, the "good" part of hell was very short lived. This is not to say I clearly remember every moment of my life or of my toddling years, but The Mother never let me forget her feelings, as she repeated them throughout the years, making sure I did not doubt or have a memory problem in regards to her reality of me.

Red, white and also blue; these are the colors mommy likes on you.

So, where am I now? I was doing pretty good for a while, and now I am struggling again. According to a timeline of living, one would call this body 50 and three months short of another year. I was taking an antidepressant for a few years and over time, life was changing. One might say HOPE was being born. I was learning how to smile for real, instead of painting a face for the external world. I felt something I believe was happiness. I was even becoming sloppy and relaxed. Poop, how things do change. The medication appears to have been partly the cause of acid reflux, causing me burning pain. It did not cause the reflux, just the acidity, the painful part. So now I find myself failing into a hole of looming darkness again - a place I know so well - a place where hurts are harbored and wait with their wicked snickers, ready to eat up any relief. Of course, with all the therapy this mind has been through, one should be able to begin changing those black, slimy, burning snickers. But as we well know, life is never easy - that rolls for every living being.

"Children behave." That's what we have always told ourselves. Regardless of anything, trying to behave in relationship to the external mother figure was the ultimate goal. If She was beating the body and said "STOP THAT CRYING," then the external body stopped crying. If food was withheld as a punishment for failing to obey, then we successfully stopped being hungry. However, we learned when food was put for us to eat, to eat it fast, for it had a way of being removed for ill behavior very fast. Too bad the body was unable to stop needing to urinate at times not allowed. That would almost spell death for us one night.

As I read the Sunday Republican today, I have to giggle. I feel shame in my giggling, as it is totally inappropiate. A priest trying to face the shame and suppressed memories he experienced at the violation of his "selfness" by a priest, when he was a child. The world Catholics seem shocked and angered this violation of child - molestion of children - could go on in the world. That people "supposedly" entrusted to act as "godly" figures on earth, trusted to nurture the spirit, people "supposedly" trusted with human souls, could violate the sanctity of their position. This individual talks about "' felt so guilty....And I was experiencing anger and shame. There are all sorts of effects. It affected every single relationship I had"" in his relationship to his abuse. I still laugh. I am ashamed again. I fear punishment for my laughter. Why is everyone so shocked and up in arms, so to speak. This shit of sexual molestation has been going on in all other areas of life, why does it shock them to things the church is special???? I don't get it. Hell, aren't mothers entrusted by God to give birth and nurture the whole life of a child? But mothers abuse their children, and not just sexually, all the time, and so, like the church, many people who know and are in the position to stop it, sweep it away everyday, to keep their friendships or other personal relationships with the abuser nice and neat - the "don't rock the boat" syndrome. Again, I laugh, when I think that early in the 1900's it was "sweep under the carpet" when babies just suddenly disappeared and no one knew a thing or babies were found in dumpsters. I also laugh as this priest refers to "suppressed memories" - aren't those imaginary inventions of sick minds trying to hurt "innocent and sweet" people. What a Sunday morning of painful humor. Too bad it wasn't so easy to out abusive parents. (Sunday Republican, April 21, 2002, pg. A12)

I've been told my mother was a beautiful singer. She even performed Ave Maria in front of a crowd. She was also a straight A student, headed to be Valedictorian of her graduating class. But then something happened. I don't know what, but it all came to a crashing halt. Something forced her to drop out of school in her senior year. There is silence after that. It seems time became lost. Eventually she met my dad and they were married and started a family. There were two daughters before me and, at least, two miscarriages which would have been my older brothers. Then one warm July night, right after my parents came back from an evening of fun at an amusement park, my mother felt funny. Within forty-five minutes, I slid into the world, without any pain or pushing - just suddenly, there I was, one month early and an horrible disappointment - I was not a boy. No one knew what to call me. No one, absolutely no one had considered I might be a girl. There was only one name chosen, the name many men pray for, their own named, previously passed down to a son. I certainly presented a dilemma greater than my four pounds five ounces. There was talk of naming this child Tiny. Ouch!!!!! Thank goodness someone had a bit of common sense. When the nurse came with the birth certificate, no name had yet been chosen, so out of desperation, one letter was dropped from my father's name and I was left with the other four. It should have been a warning, that I would always be "less than" but heck, I just wanted to be fed. Since my mother could not nurse, a bottle came my way and I drank my heart out. Turned out, all that drinking wasn't so good, as I was allergic to it. Everything was tried, and finally Goat's milk became my sustenance.

I remember, we lived in a two story house with five or six room. It was sided with gray shakes. A neat house with a small yard. Don't know if my parents owned or rented it and it doesn't even matter. There was a church across the church (Catholic). My oldest sister went there. She was so smart, they started her at four years old. She eventually went on to skip a grade, graduating at 16 from high school and at the age of 19 from nursing school. She had trouble getting a job, as she was so young. Anyway, I guess overall, in the beginning, times were okay. I really don't know, just being a suckling. The one thing I always knew was, I wasn't wanted by my mother. She wanted a boy, not a third girl.

The only thing I really remember about my father is his hanging and smiling face over a crib. He would tickle the belly and waited for the laughter which followed. Or he would pick me up high, looking up with a smile. I do not have any memories of mother doing anything, but I guess the routine, necessary work of me was accomplished. Father eventually took sick with headaches; a malignant tumor was growing in his brain. Unfortunately this accrued at a time in history when the knowledge we enjoy today was missing. By the time it was discovered, nothing could be done and father became a full time patient at the Holyoke Soldiers Home. However, he was feeling good enough to have sex with mother around the beginning of May, during the year 1954. By October, it was clear Father would die and it was just a matter of time. Mother also had been having trouble with carrying her baby. In late September, mother was admitted to the hospital, struggling to hold onto the fetal child. Mother was dying, hemorrhaging. The hospital was a Catholic hospital. The only way mother could live would be to abort the baby. It was clear, Father was only a short time from death. The doctor went to the board of the hospital to ask permission to abort mother's child, as three living children would lose both their parents if nothing was done. The hospital refused, saying it was in the hands of God. The doctor gave mother something anyway to abort the baby. Knowing Father was dying, the fetal child's body was placed in cold storage, to be buried with the baby. Father died the beginning of October. Father and child were buried together. The baby was a boy and would have carried the father's name of which my name was one letter short, and for which I would never be forgiven.

Toddlers need to be nurtured. Seems my nurturance was loss, hate, tolerance, and death. Life was already out of wack for me. I was being a "brat" - well, I assume I was as that's a common remembered name. Once my father was gone, any chance at love was buried with him. My mother wanted desperately the baby in the grave to be alive - he was referred to as baby Louie. I was remined of this at such a tender age, and for a lifetime after, by the commonly spoken words, "I hate you!!!!! Why couldn't it be YOU buried at the foot of your father's casket!" These words invaded the soul of the living child's body, a body which would eventually become just a front keeping the child in the world of external others, but aided in creating a whole other world of living being who lived inside and saw the body in many different ways.
Two weeks before Father died, the Mother lost a 6 month fetus, which was a boy and named Little Louie. The mother always wanted a boy, so this did not bode well for the girl who did lived, but forgot to grow a penis. When the father died, the Mother fell apart, and I don't think was ever able to put the pieces back together again, sort of like Humpty Dumpty when he fell off the wall, cracked forever. If anything was ever going to decide my childhood fate, the time had arrived. The Mother hated me with a rage. When my father was buried, the infant Louie (Father's name sake) was buried in the foot of his casket. Mother blamed me for my father's death and would constantly repeat "Why wasn't it you buried in the foot of your father's casket. Why did my baby Louie die and you live/!!! I hate you you bastard." I missed my father so much, and I didn't or couldn't understand why someone named God had kept me alive and had let die this baby Louie who could have made Mother's life happy. I prayed for a penis, bit sadly, for my sake, one never grew. I try to understand why this God person gives girls to people who want boys. Doesn't he know it causes trouble? Doesn't he love little children? So confusing and very sad.

Little girls should be seen not heard and loisjean is a bad bad word.

After my father died, we had to move in with my grandmother and grandfather. They had a very large, old-fashion style house. Though my memories there are not happy one, or most of them, I remember loving the house and finding a source of safe in niches where tiny bodies can hide for momentary reprieves. My mother had almost died, just before my father. However, the doctors aborted the baby Louie to safe The Mother, because she had three children at home and the doctors knew my father was going to die in a matter of days and they did not want to leave the children without any parents. Because my mother had been so ill, I was put in a Christian Study Home for six months. The other two girls, older than me, stayed with the Mother and grandparents. I guess because they were in school and I wasn't. A reason given me was I was hard to handle. Well, if the Mother hated you and the only one who loved you didn't come around anymore and a baby you don't quite understand where it came from and where it went but you should have died and not it and you killed your father, again the only one who loved you and you were is a big strange house, wouldn't you have been a bit bugged out and acting out because you didn't understand anything?

One thing I learned early was that I was bad and I could never be good. I had developed a bed wetting problem while at the Study Home. The nuns would make me strip the bed, wash the sheets in a big basin and hang them outside on the lines. I had to stay there with them until they dried, so everyone could see me. Obviously that was no way to make friends. The other children laughed at me and called me names. No problem, I occupied myself within myself. Unfortunately, when I was returned to my family, the bed wetting continued. Mother would come into my room, pull me out of bed, punch my body everywhere screaming "I hate you; I wish you just die!!!" I would then have my face washed with the sheet, had to wash the sheet, and then remake the bed. I do not remember how the sheet was dried. It is a blank in my mind.
I hear songs in my head when I think I'm dead, and bo0bos hurt when I'm in bed.

No one ever stopped to think maybe I was messed up with everything going on in my life. I felt abandoned by my father and family. The Mother may have been no prize, but I knew her and her ways. I missed my sisters. All being at the Study Home did for me was to reinforce the philosophy that I was indeed bad and did not deserve to be wanted. Even once I was returned to our new home, my grandparents house, there was no welcome. I felt unwanted. I wanted to go with my daddy. How did one get dead. I wanted to be dead so my daddy could love me and so my mother wouldn't hate me so much cause she just wanted me to be dead too. I also thought if I died, this baby could come back and Mother would be happy again. Maybe she would love me then.

Hush little baby don't you cry
I will sing you a lullaby
hush little baby don't you cry
if mommy hears you're gonna die

The time to come is filled with gaps in my mind. I remember scalding hot water baths when I wet the bed to wash the pissyness from my body. If I wet my bed I wasn't allowed sheets or blankets. I remember curling up my body to be small, to be warm and to be harder to find. If my mattress was still wet, I had to lay on the floor. I remember one day after a night when I had peed my bed, I was in my room just being tiny. Mother came charging in and picked me up - I just had on underpants, because I didn't deserve clothes - and dumped me into a very hot tub, screaming words I couldn't comprehend - more like a mindless gibberish. The parts I hear were, "I hate you...I'll kill you...you bastard...I wish you were dead." I think I was screaming, but then shut up, just went away. I remember being dragged down the stairs from the 2nd floor bathroom down the cellar stairs with The Mother mumbling. Then there was blackness, except for intense heat, bright fire, then orange, bluish eyes and halo blonde hair, and pain on my hands, then falling and running and running in darkness, then someone calling the Mother. Then blackness, waking up in my bed with my grandmother running her fingers through my hair saying "your okay...everything's all right now." Then darkness. I guess Mother couldn't find a way to stop the peeing, as she had the bowels. You can not use a red rubber bottle filled with water that hurt inside, like you were going to explode and then you did in the toilet.

Fire, fire flying high
you get too close you're gonna die;
mommy will burn you if she can
so run and be smart
like the Gingerbread Man.

It is ironic, in that I have a fondness for the "orange house" as I've always referred to it, when such hurts occurred there. Mother would come in the night and stand by my bed whispering "I hate you, why didn't you die." I would pretend to be asleep, for fear if she knew I was awake, she'd kill me. I didn't sleep well then and never have. Mother was the monster of my day and my night. Anything could set her off, heck, nothing could set her off and her anger was always centered on me. While living in the orange house, I learned to not feel horrendously hot baths or ice cold punishments. My grandparents would argue with Mother about her treatment of me, but they never won, as she would threaten them with moving out. Those words had power. It is only now I might guess why, but that doesn't belong here. The fact was my grandparents were powerless to protect me and the Mother knew it.

While at the Orange House, my mother took a job, and I was sent to a day school - too young to go to kindergarten with my other siblings. It appears I did not have good listening or social skills. When it came time for naps, I refused to nap. I would keep the other children awake. Not intentionally, but I could not lay down, so I kept moving and wanting to play with the toys. I certainly didn't have stuff like this at home, so I didn't want to lose play opportunities. This did not make the staff happy. They called the Mother at her job and had her come in. This did not bode well for me, as when Mother returned to the house, I was beaten and put in my room for the night and without supper. It also meant I had to sneak quietly to go to the bathroom, as I wasn't allowed to go to the bathroom once I was in my room for the night. I usually had to wear pants and long shirts too when the other children had shorts and cooler shirts. Did not thin much of it then, and, I guess, no one else thought much of it either. The final countdown for my going to daycare came because I would not share one of the bikes. It was a wonderful orange 3-wheel bike. Not a tricycle, but a smaller version of the adult 3-wheel bike. I totally loved it and that was all I ever wanted to play with. The staff tried to get me off it, to share. I wouldn't. I kicked and cursed at the staff - they called The Mother. No matter how the Mother begged, the school refused to allow me to stay. I was beaten so bad that night, I never wanted to leave my room again. I wanted to die and be with my dad. I said prayers of the same nature. Morning came and I was still there. I shivered and wondered what was going to happen next.
Mother got the neighbor to agree to watch me. A sweet lady and I remember her with much affection. However, she was older and not up to the pranks of a 4, almost 5, year old. By not, my behaviors were quite irrational. I would hide and not come when she called. I was afraid to eat my food or gobbled everything always wanting more. The final break came on a Monday morning. I really wanted to go to school with my siblings, especially now that I didn't go to preschool. I missed play with children. This particular morning I decided to follow my two sisters to school. I was just about at the school cross walk when I heard a lady screaming, "That's her!!! There she is!!!!." A police car pulled to the curb and the neighbor who was supposed to be watching me jumped out, tears screaming down her face, hugging me and yelling at me all at once. I was speechless. Whatever had I done. All I did was follow the others to school. I couldn't comprehend why everyone was upset. When asked where I was going, I simply responded "To school." Well. the police officers put me in the car with my neighbor who was shaking like a leaf and returned us to her house. By this time, the Mother was at the house waiting and I knew going to school had not been a great idea. The neighbor was so shaken, she told The Mother she would no longer watch me as I was too much for her to handle. Again, my evening fate was sealed. Mother had to quit her job to watch me herself. Beating became a way of life for me, though there was some mercy when my grandparents were at home in the evenings. Heck, Mother had all day to perform her atrocities. Mother would put blocks of ice in a trunk in the attic and make me stay there. She would run hot baths and make me stay in them. She would refuse to feed me. At night, if Mother decided I couldn't eat, she would tell them I was sick or I was a bad girl again. I was not allowed to cry or she promised to kill me; however, she would throughout my life beat me, saying that "if you'd only cry I would have stop." I learned there was no right or wrong. I was bad and this was my punishment for my badness. I would try to be good, but it was not good enough. Eventually I would fail to feel or think. I was somewhere else. Somewhere deep inside where no one could ever hurt me. This hurt me as an older child, as I suffered memory lapses which only brought more beatings to my life.

It bothers me, this affection for the Orange House. I have no loathing for it. I think of it as a magnificent house, fondly remembering it's old-style, wrap-around porch, the roses bordering the driveway which remind me of my grandmother, the many rooms, the fireplace in the room right off the entry forum. The pantry always full with food. The shiny stainless steel counter and sink was like a crystal mirror. There was a back porch and a wonderful yard. In the back of the yard was a kennel, housing two beagles, King and Jack (not sure of the second name. I loved them so much, and I know they loved me too, as I spent time in that kennel with them, but there was never fear there. In the attic, there was a tiny cubbie, with a board which stretched out over the second floor. It was a dandy place to hide. Sometimes my next older sister would hide there with me, but we have to be very careful, as it was just a narrow board. If I had a chance to own that house today, I would buy it. For better or for worse, it will always be the home which comes most to my mind - there would be another, but not one as powerful as the Orange House.

It was in the Orange House, I became addicted to drugs and masturbation. I know, sort of hard to believe by "normal" standards. See, Mother was having a hard time keeping herself together. The doctor gave her valium to take as needed. As needed took on a whole new meaning. Since there were no set prescribed amount, Mother could get more "as needed." What was more needed than to make a beaten child sleep - in affect, to create an "illness" which would cover her beatings. If one was sleeping when on should be eating, then obviously one was sick. If one was hurt, but was sleeping, then no one would know the difference there either. I learned to adore those little pink, sometimes blue pills, and took them without hesitation. Sometimes though, I wished Mother would take a bunch of them herself and just sleep and sleep and sleep. Sometimes I wished the pills would make me sleep and sleep for ever and ever too.
For a period of time, while at the Orange House, Mother dated a man named Joe. He was a big man, not fat, with dark hair and dark eyes. I remember he took us to the beach one day. Mother, her best friend were in the front seat. Mother saw a black snake in the road and totally went bezerk - they were all surprised at this side of Mother, but I had seen it before. Joe got out and picked up the snake, snapped its neck, and threw it away - shudders in a tiny spine. But Joe had another side which was not so family linked. Joe and Mother drank. My grandfather drank too, so this was not unusual. Mother really liked Joe and did not want him to go away. She did everything he wanted. They shared a bedroom. Some nights when mother had given me a pill I was taken into that room. It was hazy-like, soft. I was given a liquid to sip. It was nice and I felt warm. Warm stuff was on my body and hands moving it around. It felt tingly and warm. I liked it. Then hands moved and played with funny parts and it made me shake and shiver. It was not bad; it was good, pretty-like. I felt warm and happy most times. Sometimes it hurt and there was heavy on me. But most times I drifted here and there in a good feeling. When I felt bad in my room by myself, I would try to create the feeling by playing with my body. Sometimes it worked and I felt good and went away where nothing made me feel bad in that moment. I because very good at the art of masturbation and could have taught classes on it. Something happened. Maybe a fight. Joe was gone, but I had grown scared of him, especially his eyes which seemed to be everywhere.

When I was close to 5 and a half, my mother remarried. Everyone was focused around my oldest sister, as she hated the man and refused to talk. Myself, I was happy that a thing called "honeymoon" was happening cause Mother would be away for a while. However, when they returned Mother and man announced we were moving into a house of our own. Deep inside I was cared because grandma and grandpa weren't coming. However, I was filled with excitement too. Maybe a new place would be good. Mother was excited and seemed happy and that was very, very important! So we moved; thus a new part of life was opening to me.
This new place was a ranch. It had a master bedroom, livingroom, kitchen, a bathroom where my two sisters slept, and a room where me and my new baby would sleep. Yes, baby. Mother was going to have a new baby and everything was going to be all right. Mother had a hard time carrying my baby. The doctor figured out she must be carrying a boy, because she never had trouble with girls and had already lost 3 or 4 boys, just can't remember. Mother had to stay in bed a lot. But that was okay because I was not allowed to go to kindergarten because I had been so bad in preschool. So I could help Mother. Mother kept going in and out of the hospital to have my baby. Every time she came home without my baby. When I asked why, everyone told me "because she didn't have enough "green stamps." I went all around the neighborhood and collected lots of green stamps. Everyone laughed when I told them why I needed them. I didn't know why then, but they gave me some and that's all I cared about. I then gave the green stamps to Mother so she could have my baby. The new time she went in the hospital she had my baby. I was so proud that I had collected so many and now our baby boy was coming home. I was so excited...

For most of the time in this house, I did not get to sleep in my own room. The new daddy worked nights, and I think mommy was afraid. So on the night's daddy worked Mother made me sleep with her. I hated this. Mother would scream at me for moving around. I tried so hard to stay real real still but it hurt to stay so still. Most times I did okay, but many times I did not and the Mother would beat me for keeping her awake or waking her up. I was, also, still wetting the bed, so I was afraid to sleep for fear I would really get killed. The real problem time came when I had to go potty. Mother would scream that I was moving. If I tried to tell her I had to go potty, she'd punch me and tell me to go to sleep and stop moving. It would take long long time to slowly edge the body out of the bed, and I would be hurting sooo bad inside. Many nights I just had to hurt. One night I wiggled a lot and mother got up and grabbed the gun under the bed and threatened to shot me if I moved again. I was afraid more to sleep then because Mother might shot me, especially if I wet the bed. I did not get much time to spend with my baby because Mother had him during the day and I was in my room being punished.
One night when Mother and daddyman went out, my oldest sister was assigned to baby-sit. I guess I was a handful. Finally my sister said she was going to tell Mother I was being bad. I went and packed my bags and told her I was running away. I walked out the door and up the street. Then I figured I better go back, because Mother would beat me if she found me. I guess my actions really frightened my sister, plus she wasn't happy to have to baby-sit. She told mother what I had done. Mother came into my room and pulled me by my hair out of bed, while swinging wildly with her fists at my head and body. She made me repack my clothes, as she continued to punch me. Then Daddyman and Mother got into the car and began driving me to a place called Brightside. Mother said it was a place for bad children. Mother said they beat you all day and all night and did not feed you, and that they would lock you in your room. The way they said it, I was scared. Guess knowing was better than the unknown. I cried and promised to try harder to be good. In order to be allowed back home, I had to promise to apologize to my sister and allow the new daddyman to spank me. I agreed and was returned home. I told my sister I was sorry and the new daddy spanked me. Mother was not happy with that spanking and took me into the bathroom and beat me all over the body. Funny, nothing really hurt that bad anymore. Most times I didn't even feel it.
I started first grade at this house.