To Be a Tree

Have you ever been asked “what's your earliest memory?”It wasn't until I was 17 that I could actually REMEMBER my first memory. And it was very surprising, my very first memory was with my father. (As you get farther in this you'll see I kinda have some daddy issues we are working on.)

We were in a dim-lit apartment with deep cherry red walls. He was on his hands and knees chasing me, “I'm gonna get you!”

And just like that, everything comes back.

That one sentence “I'm Gonna Get You.”

I was in art class and suddenly I'm overcome with emotion. The man who left and broke me so many times and had so much care for me, what happened? Life happened like it does to everyone but this is the story of what life did to me and how I learned to love my completely fucked life.

I think growing up was different for me for two very specific reasons;

I was a part of a very strict religion that had control over every decision I made.

I grew up in a small town where everyone knew me and knew my family.

I wasn't allowed to have sleepovers, I wasn't allowed caffeine, it was all about family.

Now I don't want you to read that and think “Really she's complaining about everything about family?” and the answer is no. Family is EXTREMELY important however i believe firmly in three things;

Family is NOT limited to blood

Blood isn't thicker than morals.

Abuse is abuse.

Growing up my dad's dad or my paternal grandfather was an asshole. There's no real nice way of saying how he makes me feel but we will leave it at, Asshole. I always have had a lisp and that thing got me in so much trouble growing up. A LISP! I couldn't say my s’s, f’s, th’s, anything with the snake sound wasn't easy for me.

A specific time I remember getting in trouble because of this, this grandfather had heard me say “oh my gosh” but because of the lisp it sounded like “Oh my god”. You would really think that it wouldn't be that big of a deal but he looked at me with such ferocity my hair raised. Before I knew it he was in my face grabbing my ear hard enough to bruise.

“Now what’d you say girl?”

And that's how I knew I was in deep shit. He ended up giving me a good smack to the side of the head but that wasn't a one time thing. I never liked getting hit, specifically in the head. Honestly I don't think anyone just wants to be hit in a normal setting but I would take a hit anywhere else if my head wasn't touched.

The first step dad I had is to blame for a lot of my physical triggers. His name was, we will say Rich, and he had the reddest hair you’d ever seen. Everyone thought that he was a good religious man, a good family man, If you hadn't figured it out yet, he wasn't. He didn't care if you wanted or didn't want something, he was the man of the house, he was in charge. My mom made him whatever he wanted, tended to his every need and still he beat the hope out of her. My mom had become pregnant with his child and that didn't cause any dents in the abuse. If anything it made it worse.

Rich had always hated me. He would act nice around others but behind closed doors he begun to abuse me as well. A pretty frequent situation became that I would climb the brick wall in the backyard to get to the tree on the other side, it had honeysuckles and I loved sucking on them. He would get angry if I was outside and usher me in. These little talks usually consisted of;

“Wearing things like that, men will look at you.”

“You're just a problem.”

“I'm stuck with you because your dad didn't want you.”

These things are horrible and cruel things to say but to a child, it makes it so much worse. After he’d give me this talk for sometimes 30 min, he would only get angrier. He typically would drag me by my hair up the two flights of stairs, push me in my room, and tell me i can come out when mom gets home.

The last time I saw Rich it was a really hot day, we had been living in Arizona and it was summertime. I heard him screaming and my mom crying. I usually was told to stay in my room, "it's okay, mommy will deal with it." I think it was the blood curdling scream that made me change my mind and go downstairs. I ran and saw my pregnant mother on the floor holding her belly with blood on the ground. In absolute horror I did exactly what she told me to; pack clothes and a brush. Within an hour we were on our way home to my mothers parents, a small town in New Mexico.

I never questioned my mom growing up, I didn't really have much of an option. With my dad in and out of the picture, I relied on her heavily. It wasn't until I was about eleven or twelve that I started not being around my mom as much and at that point it was for a good reason. My mother had become an alcoholic and was unbearable to be around. She very frequently started referring to me as a slut and was an all around not fun time to be around. There were a couple instances in which it became more violent and turned physical.

Freshman year in high school was hard. My mom was in the worst of her addiction and freshman year of high school for literally anyone sucks ass. With all of this and more going on, living at home with my mom became more and more of an issue. There was a time in which my mom and I had fought and it had ended up putting me outside unsure of what to do. There was a super-senior (senior for more than one year) at school who had given me his number and liked to hang out. I was scared and made the worst phone call I've ever made in my entire life.

“Can you come pick me up… Please?”

What I didn't know is that this senior had a very sadistic mentality and was going to almost end my life. When he picked me up, we went to a mutual friend's house. There were two other friends and one of the friend's caregivers. (The caregiver, we’ll call mama) Mama had been a smoker all her life and smoked 2 packs a day and was quick to offer me a cigarette. She talked to me and explained to me how much parents suck and it's time to discover who I was.

*Quick intervention here*

I believe that young adults should have time to live and discover themselves however, a traumatized adolescent is NOT who you should be saying this to. This is also going to be a point where sexual assualt and rape are discussed. Discretion is advised.

After smoking, I was offered a beer with an open top.

“Why not, one won't hurt, right?”

When I woke up the next morning I wasn't where I was the night before. I was upstairs, tied to a bed post by a bungee cord and a belt. My top had been ripped to the side exposing my breasts and my legs were open with my pants down. What the hell had happened. I screamed at the top of my lungs

“HELP ME, WHAT'S GOING ON?”

He came in and acted surprised like he didn't know what happened. He had explained he had to leave that night but I got drunk and he carried me up to this bed and left. One of the other people there must've hurt me. Just like that the grooming had begun, he had drugged me so I would enable him to hurt me again.

After about three months I began to really see and understand the abuse. It turned from not remembering nights to not remembering days, weeks. He had begun to act aggressively to all of my friends and really anyone I talked to or talked to me.