Whimsical

The first time my mother ever yelled "FIRE!" out of the window, I truely thought she was crazy. For a second I even worried that there actually was a fire and that added to my fears. It's a troubling world for a little girl to understand that people do not interfere with a demon posing as a man who is beating his girlfriend nearly to death.

I sat beside her, in the shuffle of boxes being thrown and mirors crashing over her head. The memory of hearing "FIRE" instead of "HELP ME, HE'S GOING TO KILL ME" haunts me. No one cared. Even when they thought it was a fire. Maybe they knew better. Maybe they knew her and the demon who hurt her.

It's not so easy for a child to comprehend that sometimes women ask for it. It's not easy for any human being to think that way. Having the power does not give you rights to use it. I never understood why she was always getting beat. I feared for life so many nights while I slept outside in a spot away from the traffic, while my mother could find me food. It was always the same cinnamon rolls and milk from 7-11, from the man she knew who worked there. If I could ever meet him, I would thank him for keeping me alive.

All I knew back then was that the demon was evil, and we needed to get away from him. No matter what though, no matter how many times I would call the cops, how many times I got thrown against the wall or called horrible names, he always came back. I hated my mother for it, but never dared say it out loud.

Then one day came, where, for the first time, the little girl that was me felt for once, she needed to feel that pain.

Coming home from the grocery store, a rare visit, thanks to some time without the demon and time for my mother to get us some food stamps, my mother spotted the demon. We were on foot, I was in the cart my mother was pushing, and she let go to yell at him. Yell names at him, to taunt him it seemed. She left the cart on the sidewalk, with me stuck inside, still rolling. I screamed for her to come, but she didn't even look back. She ignored my warnings that I was going to roll right off of the sidewalk. And then I did. The cart tipped, I hit my head, and then it skid, with my leg underneath the cart. I couldn't even cry. It hurt that bad. Then she came to me, after I found a way out of the cart. And that was when I wished he would've hit her.

My needs were ignored during that time. I had one friend, and that was my bike. All day, while my mother locked away with her torch and pipe, I rode my bike. I was free. The feeling only lasted until the demon or maybe one of his friends stole it from me. I cried the whole night, and all my mother could tell me was to shut it, that she would get me another one. I haven't been on a bike since.

When my brother was born, the demon returned from boot camp, and things changed altogether. I hadn't been in one school for more than a month before he went to boot camp, and now that he had been gone, I was in one school for a few months and was making friends. But he came along, and my mother ran off with him, leaving me no choice. Things become blurry, and my playtime stopped. My days of motherhood began, as mine would lock herself in the bathroom for hours on end while I took care of my brother. If I wanted to go outside, he was on my hip. I would cry and cry and I was still ignored.

Even when the demon was in boot camp, my mother found another fix. Another demon, although not half as bad, still bad enough. A tweaker who shook from too many drugs, and a man who was living in his car, which soon became our home. Alot better than where it was parked though, which was in front of his mother's trailor.

Only once did I have to sleep in that trailor, and once was enough to leave me scarred. His mother had too many poodles. The floor was black, and felt like tar in the summer time. That was no carpet, that was dog shit and piss caked on the floor. That wasn't even the thing that bothered me. What did was the roaches. Alfred Hitchcock style roaches. Everywhere was covered. My mother forced me to sleep in there. She gave me a roach motel and told me to sleep in the recliner that vibrated because roaches hate vibration. I sat in the chair, in tears, beggin not to stay, and she walked out of the door. I turned on the vibration and something really big started to move. Millions, no exaggeration, of roaches came out of that chair, with me still on it. I jumped up and screamed.

Demon number two only hit my mother once or twice, but I still hated him. In retaliation, she married him. I didn't ever attend that wedding, but there wasn't much to see anyway.

This is not my whole life story, just a glimpse of what I had to survive as a young girl. I raised myself, and my mother admits to it, but will never fill in the blanks I have. She refuses to talk about what happened, as if it never happened because, and I quote, she's "a changed woman".

There's a difference though. I've never learned anything better. If it were to happen now, I would walk away scratched, but not dented. But since I was only around 9, I absorbed like any child would in any situation.

I've met some strange people, and I've been to some strange places, and one day I hope to share them all.

Most people live what they learn. I've been lucky to have not ended up with any abusive man, but there are some things I know I will never get used to.

When you are in a situation that is filled with drama all of the time, when you leave that life, you get bored very easily. That is what's called the beaten housewife syndrome. A woman in my mother's situation would now pick fights just to get a rise, and my mother does do that.

With me, I suffer the effects, because since I know men are not supposed to be like the demon, I don't know any different. I'm convinced even the best of men will snap. So I build walls, and I tell lies to manipulate men so that I will always be a step ahead of them. So I can abuse them before they abuse me. It's difficult, because my insecurities run so deep that even thinking about them now brings me to tears, and I do not ever want to appear anything but strong.

Since my relationship is healthy, I'm constantly wondering why everything is so calm and perfect. There's a hole missing, the demon, and it's unsettling. It's the unknown, and the wait. And I often wonder 'is this it? This is all relationships are about?' and it makes me wonder if my relationship will last. I'm happy. There's no drama. And then, said in a horrible shocked way "there's no drama" it's a curse brought onto me by the demon and my mother, and I can't thank them enough for it.

I try to ignore it the best I can, because I will never tell you it has got the best of me. Never. But sometimes I will hint it around.

Now here we are, my mother over it, a 'changed woman'. She stands up for the demon when we talk about him, like she respects him. Telling me he was brought up wrong and had to cut the lawn with scissors, so he had reasons to ruin our life. She's on a talking basis with him, and I hate it. She talks about me, she send him photos of my son. He's in jail now, and my brother won't meet him again until he's 11 or so. He loves his father, and he has no idea why. He has no reason to.

In a closing paragraph, I will just say that I guess no matter how far you've come, how well you overcame an uncontrollable situation, there will always be peices with you. And every morning I keep it close, and know that it's only me, and one day I will be able to face the world.