the cliche of my life part1

Wings.. give me wings.. let me fly away..
I want to find peace. The little child within me that has hurt so much . that has cried and has felt more pain within than can be imagined, is still crying. I am a survivor and this is my story.

I wake up daily with something in life to look forward to, through my dharma practices and the eyes of a kind gentlemen. I know that I can make it one more day.
But with each passing day it can be really hard.

Perhaps I should start form the beginning. I was born into a middle class family with a birth father that was a huge pervert. Form the moment of my arrival into this life my birth father had this obsession with molesting me as I got older he began trying to rape me. But more on that later. My mother was as she puts it still to this day, the queen of bitches. It has been reported in medical records that when I was two weeks old she threw me across the hood of a car. And told my father these exact words “ you take the little bitch and get out of here.” I guess she really didn’t want me but kind of had no choice in the matter so she accepted the responsibility. Needless to say I am the youngest of five I have tow brothers and tow sisters that to be honest I wouldn’t begin to shake a stick at them because they really don’t seem to be worth my time either. I never grew up with them. They all went to foster homes and were adopted out. Mom says it was never her fault. But to be honest we as human beings can never see our own faults even though they are. My mother her job was to protect me. The gods gave me her with the expectations tht she would not let harm come my way. We come into our next life, completely helpless but accepting. we never are choosey about our life or who we will be born to. We just are born to whatever our karma of our previous life has laid before us. I don’t want to sound like I have total delusions of grandeur but I don’t think I had a bad past life. i was born with a white ring around my head like a halo. Someone with those kind of markings on their head could not have had a bad past life. So perhaps I was my mother’s karma. And that this really wasn’t a punishment to me
It was more punishment towards my mother. Harsh yes but wait until I get further into the story and you may understand why I say this. My family and I tend to have this joke about my mother. : my moms happy place is a land where she can torture people by cutting open wounds and pouring salt in them .When most people would run away she would be right there listening to the screams as if it was a form of beautiful classic opera to her.” Many have laughed when this was said, but these many laughing beings do not realize the seriousness of that statement. My mother is cruel. With that being said, My mother knew my father was a sick perverted man. Yet she still was going to hand me over to him. I think about that in such sweet bitterness. Well..
I don’t remember much about my life before a certain age. Except small details about a kitchen, or where some things were located in the house, I can remember playing with certain toys but that’s it. I do remember I was always tossed back and forth between my grandmother’s who was a bigger bitch then my mother or I would be back with my mom. I remember one year. Clear as day. I do not remember any of the physical pain. Somehow all that went away but what I do remember in vivid details are the sights I saw, their voices, and the constant thought of why. Why was this happening to me and is this normal? I didn’t know any of it was wrong. I just know I didn’t like it. I was terrified. I do not remember ever arriving to this house. I do not remember my mother leaving me there. But I remember the things that truly started to impact me. I guess it was like when I got there everything was blurry like I was n drugs or something but things began to get clear once events started to take place. I was at a babysitter (we shall call him Hell) this home was a tiny two bedroom. The living room and kitchen were the same room. There was only a nappy chair with that fabric that had the old fashioned wagon wheel and the little boy and stuff like that. It’s hard to describe but when I see that fabric in other homes im instantly taken back to this terrible tragic time of my life that I had no control over. I remember there was a second bedroom but I was never allowed to sleep in it. All my toys and clothes were there but i was never allowed to play with my toys. Only one and it was this stupid stuffed ice cream. It was dumb. I didn’t get to choose the toy I played with Hell always did. I don’t remember the food I ate. In fact I don’t really remember ever eating there. I don’t remember ever having a change of clothes except a pink nightgown I always wore when I came home from school that was falling apart. (There is some significance to this gown that will be explained later on) I do not even remember taking a bath in this place. But I do remember the sink. Anyway, things in my mind started beginning to imprint when I had to begin to survive for myself. I had to use my own imagination and I wanted just to play so much. I was not even allowed to play with this child that lived across the street. I would go to school and none of the kids would play with me. I could not understand why. They did before I went to live with these people and now they wouldn’t. Children tend to sense things in others, when something is wrong in their life. They tend to not come around the one that has problems. It’s a survival thing. Kids don’t like drama! But that desperation for a young child destined to be an artist was c0ming out. I had to find a way to keep my mind sane. To keep calm and understand, I guess you could say I began a form of meditation, note I was only eight years old.
This carpet was in such a busy design it was brown, white, cream, and red with all sort of shapes. I began to imagine in my mind that the shapes would come to life. I was only allowed to sit in this little bean bag chair. It was my bed and my seat, if I was lucky enough to sit. The carpet would dance the shapes would speak art work was forming in my mind of the way these shapes were. I worked out scenarios in my mind of these shapes being children and playing.