Villain and Superhero in one...
Strong, Brave, Smart, Independent, Thoughtful, and Wise beyond her years are just a few of the qualities that represent the woman who is my mother. Absent, Jealous, Intentions of being there, Busy, and clueless to what is going on, are qualities that represent the parent who is my mother. How can one woman possess these very different characteristics and be the same person?
Christmas time last year Grandpa was in the hospital due to needing a five bypass surgery on his heart. He is a 78 year old man with a history of cancer, infections, diabetes, and whatever else you face at his age. Things did not look very good. The whole family was a mess, including me. My aunt, who had not been home in three years to see the family since she moved away, flew home. My uncle who lives in California came back to Jersey, and most of my grandfather’s girlfriend’s family was all there. No one was sure what the outcome was going to be for this is a serious surgery for anyone, specially an old man. Amongst all the insanity there was a breath of fresh air. One person who kept everyone calm, who gathered all of the people close and spoke the them giving assurance that in the end all would be ok, just as Moses did for the Israelites. She was our savior, and this woman was my mother. She was worried and hurting too, but put that aside to care for everyone else. She knew that there needed to be someone that was holding us all together, and without hesitation she stood up and took the job. There were nights that I heard her crying when she thought no one was around, but how could she not. Everyone needs time to breathe and let out emotion, even the heroines like her.
My mother the heroine, she was the one person in the family who always had her suit of armor on underneath her dress. Being the oldest she was the protector of the Tooley’s, seeing what no one else could, keeping the clan safe and sheltered. Although she was not always thanked for her work, or told she did a job well done, recognition is not what she seeked. It was seeing her family together, and making it through another obstacle in one piece. This is the woman who I envy and find myself taking after.
Then there is the parent who I strive to be as different as possible from, the parent who never seemed to have time for me, and never could tell just how much I was hurting. Junior year of high school I went from being 127 pounds to weighing 110 pounds in a matter of two months. My bones were popping out, I could not sleep, when I did eat, my body was in such need of nutrients I put on no weight, and I spent almost every night crying myself to sleep. This was my life. There was no way you could ignore the changes that had occurred within me, specially being my mother how could one not notice? Well she noticed alright, this parent of mine, and she made an effort to try and find out what was wrong, but after I shut her out after a few tries she backed off. SHE BACKED OFF! I was 16 years old, going through a horrible break-up, losing my mind by the minute and she just let me be. Where was her suit of armor now? Why did she not use her super strength and knock down my walls, no matter how many obstacles she had to cross, wasn’t I worth saving? Her daughter, her so called life, and I was left to fight my own battle, a battle I am still fighting today.
I was left to fight alone, while superwoman was off saving others. A group of men who were sexually abused when they were younger had formed an online group, looking for a bright light of strength to help them. She was there and spent hours a day with these men. Listening, giving advice, and being exactly what they needed. Headline: Men Beaten, Battered, and Destroyed Saved by an Everyday Woman Looking to Help. If recognition was given that would have been the title of an article. I would come home from school, work, or just being out and she would either be on the computer e-mailing these men back and forth, or on the phone strategizing how to save someone who went a-wall. Most people forget about men who were raped and emotionally hurt, but not this woman. She reached out and made a difference for these men, and saved a handful of lives. It takes one hell of a woman to talk a person out of committing suicide. I can only hope to possess the compassion and strength that she has.
This site that my parent was a part of needed her, but so did I. Freshmen year of college something happened to me that caused me to relapse back into my depression. Someone hurt me, took my trust, threw it on the ground and spit on it; leaving me with a broken heart and a nasty souvenir. While I tried to fight back, I lost, and my grades had to pay the price. So I headed home in May with my head sulking and heart hurting. My parent, thought that I was partying too much and was not able to handle college life, so she grounded me for the whole summer. I was too weak to even argue at the time, but where was her compassion then? Why could she listen to these men with all their problems and care for them so, but when her daughter needed her, she turned the other cheek and sat down at her desk to write an e-mail. This e-mail was to one of the men that she had been helping, she was looking for some advice, so she turned to him. The rule in my house with the computer was, you leave it up its fair game, and I wish she never left this up. Dear X, I fear that I have spoiled my daughter. She is so selfish and ungrateful. I have given her all the things she has wanted and doing poorly in school is how she repays me. I have always been so nice about things, I think this time I am going to have to put my foot down and punish her. This is of course is not word for word what she said, but it was something along these lines. I was selfish; she gave me everything I wanted, I would have taken having the woman that she is as my parent, over any material item. I was tempted to write another e-mail for both them to read, explaining what had happened and really giving it to him and her, but it was not worth it.
How is it that you can be so proud and so angry at the same person? How can you want to scream, yell and cry at a parent, and give an award for the woman that she is? What do you do when you look at a person and smile and as you give them a hug, a fire begins to burn inside of you and you have to pull away? As I get older I possess more and more qualities of the heroine, adding my own little tweak to the way I handle things. I am or like to think I am the Superhero of the Quinn’s. I strive to help those who need me, to be there for family, and to make people smile whenever possible. I hope to be even more successful then my mother, but to learn from her all that I can. She has endured a lot in her life, and is a magnificently tough individual, being like her, would be an honor.
I have not yet reached the part of my life where I am to be a parent, someone who has a life in their hands and is 100% responsible for the well being of that person. When this day comes, I do not want to be like the parent that I have. To even type these words is painful, because although I know my parent loves me, she messed up. She needed to be there, being my protector, savior, and mother. My shoulder to cry on, my person to turn to, the one who was always on my side, the one who was ALWAYS there, the one who saw through my walls, and the one who no matter how hard things were, never gave up. I wanted her and I needed her, in fact I still do. So what do you do when your mother and parent are the same person? How do you tell the two apart? Heroine and Villain become one person, except I am the only one without the rose colored glasses, so I alone can see both. Looking at her looking in the mirror I see a working woman who could save the world, and then the reflection of a broken parent who knows nothing of her mistakes. While I may be angry and hurt at my parent; and proud and envious of my mother, the truth is I love them both. When it comes to love these two people become one, but love is not always enough.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Blog # 12
Sitting on my bed looking around my room many happy thoughts came into my head, but one thing really caught my eye. My sisters high school graduation picture, she is wearing a white cap and gown, her hair is pin straight, which is how it always is or she goes nuts, her make-up is done just like I taught her, and her smile is perfect. One word came to mind when I see her in that picture, proud. I know you are not supposed to pick favorites with in a family but if i had to choose it would be Cyd. She is a younger version of me, who made better choices. She has always had a good head on her shoulders and I think everyone could be a bit more like her. She does not look at the world through rose colored glasses, she see's people and things just the way they are. She is not afraid to fall in love even though she knows the pain of it ending; she always speaks her mind, and has a heart of gold. I am so honored to be her big sister and blessed to have her in my life, for we are each other’s rocks, and without her I would not be complete. Looking up at her face I could not ask for a better sister or friend.
Blog # 11
There is a teady bear that sits on the top of my desk. Right now all that you can see is it paw that is pink with a white on the front side of the hand. This teddy bear has been with me since the say that I was born into this world. This is the pink bear that my daddy gave me. I honestly do not have any real memories with this bear, I did not bring it to and from places with me or have trouble parting with it. I think it was part of my pretend class one or two times when i was little, but that as far as it goes. Yet this bear means the world to be simply because of WHO gave it to me. My dad lives in another state and even when he did not, he never lived with me. So looking up at that bear was like always having him around. I was an independance little girl so I didnt need the bear, or my dad with me all the time, but knowing he was always there made me safe. If possible I will hold on to this bear my whole life, for the symbol that it stands for will not always be around. My father holds a very special place in my heart, and so does this pink teddy bear sitting way up high in my room.
Blog # 10
The essay that I am going to revise is essay number one. The one about my Ex and our unfortunate day. The reason that I would like to revise this essay is because recently someone wonderful has come into my life and he has in the past two weeks helped me make more progress on getting over this event then I have in four years. So I would like to take this event and the scar it left on me and turn it into a healing piece. What does it take to get past an emotional scar. With out going into to much detail because that will be for the essay its self, but I think my main point is, you can not do it alone. As strong as you are, we all need someone to help us feel better. It could be a friend, a parent, sibling and in my case a boyfriend. How much can you do on you really do on your own? So i will be taking what aaron did to me and the scar it left on me, and showing how one person can almost make that scar disapear.
Essay numero dos
Divorce
DIVORCE…it is just a word in the dictionary with a definition and origin, same as the word ICECREAM; but say the two aloud and focus on the feeling you get, when those simple two syllable words are spoken. For me when I say ice cream I think about Oreos, chocolate, cookie dough, cold, and the word yummmyyyy certainly comes to mind. Then I say Divorce, and I think my parents, fighting, growing up, crying, big family and missing out. At the age of one, my whole was turned upside down, and I did not even know it.
By one my mother and father split, by age two my father re-married and I gained a stepmother and two pain in the ass step brothers, who felt it was their job to make my life a living hell. Everyone says that’s their job as brothers, well I say screw that. This is when things got complicated. I was spending every other weekend with my dad and during the week with my mom, so I was just being shipped back and forth from place to place, like an airplane going from airport to airport. As a little child this was no easy task to cope with. I cried, kicked, screamed and threw fits every time the drop was made. I either did not want to leave my mom or after the weekend was over I did not want to leave my dad. They say the young child gets scared when his or her parents hide behind an object, well imagine them really leaving and you don’t know why. This was my life, a baby nomad, except I had a chauffeur.
Your parents splitting up, no matter the age you are, deeply affect’s a child whether you yourself realize it or not. I become conscious of the influence it had me very early. You see, part of growing up is getting into lots of trouble, being silly, having your parents or guardians taking care of you, you are not supposed to be or act like a grown up when you are little. It is just not part of the job description of a child, but I felt like I had no choice. I had babysitters till I was 12, but they never watched me. I usually found a way to make some sort of dinner, I did my homework, helped my friends out, and did things that I think I was too young to be doing, yet I did anyway. Sad part is, I loved acting like a grown up. Being responsible and having friends, (my stuffed animals) and adults looking to me for help made me feel special. Since my dad had the boys, work and my step mom I felt like there was little time for me, and my mom was always working, sleeping or going on dates; I took care of me. It was fun, being like a big person, but now that I am 22 where has my childhood gone? It is like when those who never go to college and just jump into the real world look back and want to kick their selves in the ass because they did not go, I do the same thing when I think about missing out on the kid experience.
Now I am grown up, I have bills, work and school. Plus I can drive, this gets old real fast; and have so many other responsibilities that I do not want. Every day I wish that I could be a little kid again, and while I know most people do say this, my reasons are different. I want to be a little kid again so I can experience it for the first time. I want to play with bubbles, get dirty, draw on the walls with crayon, but doing such things now are not part of my job. This is what divorce did to me; it stripped me of my childhood and made me feel like a 5 year old going on 25. It took away the rights I had as a youngster, and that’s not fair. DIVORCE, which is defined as a judicial declaration dissolving a marriage in whole or in part, esp. one that releases the husband and wife from all matrimonial obligations, is not just a word to me. It is a painful process that does not only affect those who are the divorcees, but hurts the children involved and can strip a child of her right to be young.
DIVORCE…it is just a word in the dictionary with a definition and origin, same as the word ICECREAM; but say the two aloud and focus on the feeling you get, when those simple two syllable words are spoken. For me when I say ice cream I think about Oreos, chocolate, cookie dough, cold, and the word yummmyyyy certainly comes to mind. Then I say Divorce, and I think my parents, fighting, growing up, crying, big family and missing out. At the age of one, my whole was turned upside down, and I did not even know it.
By one my mother and father split, by age two my father re-married and I gained a stepmother and two pain in the ass step brothers, who felt it was their job to make my life a living hell. Everyone says that’s their job as brothers, well I say screw that. This is when things got complicated. I was spending every other weekend with my dad and during the week with my mom, so I was just being shipped back and forth from place to place, like an airplane going from airport to airport. As a little child this was no easy task to cope with. I cried, kicked, screamed and threw fits every time the drop was made. I either did not want to leave my mom or after the weekend was over I did not want to leave my dad. They say the young child gets scared when his or her parents hide behind an object, well imagine them really leaving and you don’t know why. This was my life, a baby nomad, except I had a chauffeur.
Your parents splitting up, no matter the age you are, deeply affect’s a child whether you yourself realize it or not. I become conscious of the influence it had me very early. You see, part of growing up is getting into lots of trouble, being silly, having your parents or guardians taking care of you, you are not supposed to be or act like a grown up when you are little. It is just not part of the job description of a child, but I felt like I had no choice. I had babysitters till I was 12, but they never watched me. I usually found a way to make some sort of dinner, I did my homework, helped my friends out, and did things that I think I was too young to be doing, yet I did anyway. Sad part is, I loved acting like a grown up. Being responsible and having friends, (my stuffed animals) and adults looking to me for help made me feel special. Since my dad had the boys, work and my step mom I felt like there was little time for me, and my mom was always working, sleeping or going on dates; I took care of me. It was fun, being like a big person, but now that I am 22 where has my childhood gone? It is like when those who never go to college and just jump into the real world look back and want to kick their selves in the ass because they did not go, I do the same thing when I think about missing out on the kid experience.
Now I am grown up, I have bills, work and school. Plus I can drive, this gets old real fast; and have so many other responsibilities that I do not want. Every day I wish that I could be a little kid again, and while I know most people do say this, my reasons are different. I want to be a little kid again so I can experience it for the first time. I want to play with bubbles, get dirty, draw on the walls with crayon, but doing such things now are not part of my job. This is what divorce did to me; it stripped me of my childhood and made me feel like a 5 year old going on 25. It took away the rights I had as a youngster, and that’s not fair. DIVORCE, which is defined as a judicial declaration dissolving a marriage in whole or in part, esp. one that releases the husband and wife from all matrimonial obligations, is not just a word to me. It is a painful process that does not only affect those who are the divorcees, but hurts the children involved and can strip a child of her right to be young.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Blog #9 essay number two
The focus of my essay is going to be the impact of a divorce on a little gir, teenager, and woman. Growing up in middleschool I had many friends who's parents were divorced just like mine, but they didn't know their dad's; I couldnt understand that, because my dad was there. He lived in a different state but I saw him every weekend. He bent over backwards for me, and did everything that I can remember to see me. The only thing that ever hurt was that he couldn't coach my soccer games, or make me dinner everynight. This was because of the divorce. I lived with my mom, it was just her and I in what turned into different places. We moved alot and I never really knew why. I never really saw my mom and for some reason I do not have many memories with her, although I lived with her.
It is a touchy subject and I need to focus on one specific thought, but I am having trouble with this. Hopefully by this weekend I will be able to settle on one idea and write a strong essay
It is a touchy subject and I need to focus on one specific thought, but I am having trouble with this. Hopefully by this weekend I will be able to settle on one idea and write a strong essay
Monday, October 5, 2009
Essay # 1 Draft
Kelly Quinn
Essay # 1, rough draft
Creative non-fiction
Scars, this is a word that can possibly be looked back upon in remembrance of a silly activity or mindless act, but in most cases scars are reminders of pain. Falling off of your bike, cutting yourself with a knife, a surgery, or a car accident, these are all incidents who’s result is usually the gaining of a scar. They come in all shapes and sizes, for instance the bruise on my leg is about the size of a grape fruit, and the cut on my neck is no longer than an inch long. We all get them different ways, doesn’t really matter how, when, or why we get them; it’s the impact they have on us. One type of scar in particular that I fear the most is the emotional scar. No one can see it, not even you, it can fade just like an actual scar, sometimes medicine is needed to help reduce its appearance, but it never really goes away. It sits there inside of you like a cancer that is waiting to show its ugly head at any moment; some days you can almost forget about it and others it is as though a hand grenade has just gone off inside of you but no one else can see. These scars go deeper than any physical scar, the do not always scab, or change colors as they heal; because truthfully some are just as fresh in your mind 20 years later than they were the day they happened…
I can still feel the breeze blow past my head and the sound of all the particles in the wood breaking less than an inch away from my head. I still get chills when I can feel his cold fingers on the back of my neck, and the rug scraping my knees as I slid down the stairs. My heart just stops and I can’t breathe every now and then, just like that day. It happened six years ago, towards the end of winter, I remember because the walk to Courtney’s was so cold. Six years ago and I feel like it was yesterday, six years ago and the sounds, smells, and pain are no less apparent than they were that day. That day changed me, weakened me, and stole a piece of me that I fear I will never get back. That day was the day that I was belittled to a mere nothing in my ex-boyfriends eyes.
This was the first time he ever laid a hand on me in that manor, but it was far from the first time he hurt me. He was the guy that everyone loved and never thought he was capable of the things I said he did. Truthfully I do not even think my friends believed me. He was good. He knew what to say, how to act, the right way to smile; it is frightening to think about the power that this boy had over everyone, especially me. I gave up the love of my life for this guy, walked right out of his life, into the jaws of a great white shark. A beautiful creature, who is so graceful and smart, but when it’s hungry, strikes with a force that no matter the strength of the individual, there is no escaping, it will devour you alive.
I was sixteen years old at this point; we had been dating since I was 15. We were either at each other’s throats or in the sack making up. Forgive me for not using the term making love when I speak of this guy, for there was no love involved in this relationship. Things went well in the beginning and then they got destructive. Lying, fighting over everything, cheating, lying, making up poems and passing them around school, lying, turning friends against me, lying, lying, and did I mention lying. It was one thing right after another, something that a 16 year old girl who is in high school is just not able to handle. I was no saint, I made mistakes too, but I never made him feel like nothing, I never hurt him like he hurt me. I guess my views are one sided, but when someone does what he did, and as a sixteen year old girl you blame yourself; he deserves no sympathy.
“We need to talk about this, why are you doing this to me?!”
This is how our conversation on the phone started that day. It was a back and forth battle of who can yell the loudest the get their point across. I won, he caved.
“Fine, just come over and we will talk about it, but you can’t stay long.”
I liked winning; I would get a feeling of satisfaction because for once he gave in to me. So I called the Alpha Taxi, my favorite place, got a cab and headed over there. It was only about a 15 minute drive, but that day took longer, there was traffic. We stopped in front of the house, 5 Yuro Drive, a tan and brown residence nothing special about it, I paid the guy and made my way to the front door. Pushed the door bell twice, no answer, knocked twice, no answer, as I went to knock again (for I had just spend 15 dollars taking a cab all the way over here I was not going to be a happy camper if we did not talk) he opened the door. I could tell real quick that he was angry, he used to get a wrinkle in-between his eyes when he was about to yell, and the moment I saw his face it was already there.
“What are you doing here!?”
I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth, did he not just say I could come over to talk, was I hallucinating? He was on the phone with his best friend Jimmy complaining that I had just showed up with no invite, going on and on about how I was crazy. (Looking back, I was a little out of my mind at this age, but who could blame me, a 40 year old woman would be acting the same way being in a relationship like I was in) This set me off; I was in the house at this point hunched over in a little ball, crying so hard that I couldn’t breathe. I was near the end of the couch on the floor by the front door; I had fallen over from crying. Right here I should up gotten up and left, but at the time I couldn’t. He was standing over me yelling, very loud to, but I couldn’t hear him, everything sounded like I was underwater. I know he was switching back and forth from yelling at me and then yelling at Jimmy. He pushed me over so that I was laying on the ground now; he kept nudging me like you would to provoke a dog to bite. He told me to leave over and over again, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe; it felt like I was having an asthma attack; so I just laid there and cried. I did not speak to him, or yell; I at the point literally just curled up and cried.
How could I do this, this wasn’t me. Out of all of my friends I was the strongest, the leader of the group. The advice giver on everything, the big sister, the captain of the soccer team, the girl who always took care of herself. When I look back on this I am just angry for how weak I was.
I finally came to from my state and realized he was gone. I took a few moments and a couple of deep breaths and headed up stairs, he was still on the phone.
“Jimmy I do not want to be like my cousin, I don’t want to do this man, but I am going crazy!”
I heard him but I couldn’t believe he meant what he said, he would never hit me. I knocked on the door and asked him to come out about 3 times, my world changed when he opened that door. His eyes were black and filled with hatred. He grabbed both of my arms and pinned me and against the wall and started screaming at me going on and on about what an awful person I am. Next he took a few steps back into his bathroom which was directly behind him. At this point I began to cry again, uncontrollably, this pissed him off. Then he uttered under his breath, “Don’t make me do this.”
I barley heard him over my sobs, but I saw him stand up and then fly at me. His fist missed my face by a quarter of an inch and flew right through the wall, leaving an enormous hole and dent. (Which he later showed off to his friends bragging how strong he was, but left out the part that it was meant for my head) I froze, stopped breathing, and just stared at him for what seemed to be forever, and then collapsed again. This time I was near the stairs and before I attempted to move, his cold lifeless fingers were on the back of my neck, he was crying. His grip got tighter as I stood up, he pushed me back down. I yelled at him to let me go, but every time I spoke he would squeeze harder. Then he pushed me. I rolled down the stairs, my knees were already red from being pushed on the carpet, my arms had bruises on them from him grabbing me so hard, and now after hitting my head on the railing I lay flat on the floor at the bottom of those twelve stairs, looking up at a person that I once upon a time thought I loved. I stared into his eyes until he went back into his room and dialed someone’s number. It took me a few minutes to get up; I grabbed my purse and jacket, walked out of his house and walked down the street to Courtney’s . I was like a zombie in a trance. It wasn’t true, I was dreaming, this did not just happen. My knees buckled when I entered her room, I sobbed for three hours, went home and went to bed. The next day at school, he told me I was crazy and it never happened. I only told my closest friends, because I knew him and no one would have believed me.
This scar it runs deep, there is no escaping it. I can put it out of my mind for months at a time, but it never goes away. When a man hits you, a piece of yourself dies, and you can never get that back, especially a man who was supposed to love you. A man who had no problem putting your troubles aside so he could get laid, who would turn around the next day and act like you never existed. A man who put his hands on me with full intention to hurt and inflict pain. As I said earlier, I was no angel I played my part in our fights, but never once did I do anything that deserved what I got. Six years later, and this wound is wide open.
Essay # 1, rough draft
Creative non-fiction
Scars, this is a word that can possibly be looked back upon in remembrance of a silly activity or mindless act, but in most cases scars are reminders of pain. Falling off of your bike, cutting yourself with a knife, a surgery, or a car accident, these are all incidents who’s result is usually the gaining of a scar. They come in all shapes and sizes, for instance the bruise on my leg is about the size of a grape fruit, and the cut on my neck is no longer than an inch long. We all get them different ways, doesn’t really matter how, when, or why we get them; it’s the impact they have on us. One type of scar in particular that I fear the most is the emotional scar. No one can see it, not even you, it can fade just like an actual scar, sometimes medicine is needed to help reduce its appearance, but it never really goes away. It sits there inside of you like a cancer that is waiting to show its ugly head at any moment; some days you can almost forget about it and others it is as though a hand grenade has just gone off inside of you but no one else can see. These scars go deeper than any physical scar, the do not always scab, or change colors as they heal; because truthfully some are just as fresh in your mind 20 years later than they were the day they happened…
I can still feel the breeze blow past my head and the sound of all the particles in the wood breaking less than an inch away from my head. I still get chills when I can feel his cold fingers on the back of my neck, and the rug scraping my knees as I slid down the stairs. My heart just stops and I can’t breathe every now and then, just like that day. It happened six years ago, towards the end of winter, I remember because the walk to Courtney’s was so cold. Six years ago and I feel like it was yesterday, six years ago and the sounds, smells, and pain are no less apparent than they were that day. That day changed me, weakened me, and stole a piece of me that I fear I will never get back. That day was the day that I was belittled to a mere nothing in my ex-boyfriends eyes.
This was the first time he ever laid a hand on me in that manor, but it was far from the first time he hurt me. He was the guy that everyone loved and never thought he was capable of the things I said he did. Truthfully I do not even think my friends believed me. He was good. He knew what to say, how to act, the right way to smile; it is frightening to think about the power that this boy had over everyone, especially me. I gave up the love of my life for this guy, walked right out of his life, into the jaws of a great white shark. A beautiful creature, who is so graceful and smart, but when it’s hungry, strikes with a force that no matter the strength of the individual, there is no escaping, it will devour you alive.
I was sixteen years old at this point; we had been dating since I was 15. We were either at each other’s throats or in the sack making up. Forgive me for not using the term making love when I speak of this guy, for there was no love involved in this relationship. Things went well in the beginning and then they got destructive. Lying, fighting over everything, cheating, lying, making up poems and passing them around school, lying, turning friends against me, lying, lying, and did I mention lying. It was one thing right after another, something that a 16 year old girl who is in high school is just not able to handle. I was no saint, I made mistakes too, but I never made him feel like nothing, I never hurt him like he hurt me. I guess my views are one sided, but when someone does what he did, and as a sixteen year old girl you blame yourself; he deserves no sympathy.
“We need to talk about this, why are you doing this to me?!”
This is how our conversation on the phone started that day. It was a back and forth battle of who can yell the loudest the get their point across. I won, he caved.
“Fine, just come over and we will talk about it, but you can’t stay long.”
I liked winning; I would get a feeling of satisfaction because for once he gave in to me. So I called the Alpha Taxi, my favorite place, got a cab and headed over there. It was only about a 15 minute drive, but that day took longer, there was traffic. We stopped in front of the house, 5 Yuro Drive, a tan and brown residence nothing special about it, I paid the guy and made my way to the front door. Pushed the door bell twice, no answer, knocked twice, no answer, as I went to knock again (for I had just spend 15 dollars taking a cab all the way over here I was not going to be a happy camper if we did not talk) he opened the door. I could tell real quick that he was angry, he used to get a wrinkle in-between his eyes when he was about to yell, and the moment I saw his face it was already there.
“What are you doing here!?”
I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth, did he not just say I could come over to talk, was I hallucinating? He was on the phone with his best friend Jimmy complaining that I had just showed up with no invite, going on and on about how I was crazy. (Looking back, I was a little out of my mind at this age, but who could blame me, a 40 year old woman would be acting the same way being in a relationship like I was in) This set me off; I was in the house at this point hunched over in a little ball, crying so hard that I couldn’t breathe. I was near the end of the couch on the floor by the front door; I had fallen over from crying. Right here I should up gotten up and left, but at the time I couldn’t. He was standing over me yelling, very loud to, but I couldn’t hear him, everything sounded like I was underwater. I know he was switching back and forth from yelling at me and then yelling at Jimmy. He pushed me over so that I was laying on the ground now; he kept nudging me like you would to provoke a dog to bite. He told me to leave over and over again, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe; it felt like I was having an asthma attack; so I just laid there and cried. I did not speak to him, or yell; I at the point literally just curled up and cried.
How could I do this, this wasn’t me. Out of all of my friends I was the strongest, the leader of the group. The advice giver on everything, the big sister, the captain of the soccer team, the girl who always took care of herself. When I look back on this I am just angry for how weak I was.
I finally came to from my state and realized he was gone. I took a few moments and a couple of deep breaths and headed up stairs, he was still on the phone.
“Jimmy I do not want to be like my cousin, I don’t want to do this man, but I am going crazy!”
I heard him but I couldn’t believe he meant what he said, he would never hit me. I knocked on the door and asked him to come out about 3 times, my world changed when he opened that door. His eyes were black and filled with hatred. He grabbed both of my arms and pinned me and against the wall and started screaming at me going on and on about what an awful person I am. Next he took a few steps back into his bathroom which was directly behind him. At this point I began to cry again, uncontrollably, this pissed him off. Then he uttered under his breath, “Don’t make me do this.”
I barley heard him over my sobs, but I saw him stand up and then fly at me. His fist missed my face by a quarter of an inch and flew right through the wall, leaving an enormous hole and dent. (Which he later showed off to his friends bragging how strong he was, but left out the part that it was meant for my head) I froze, stopped breathing, and just stared at him for what seemed to be forever, and then collapsed again. This time I was near the stairs and before I attempted to move, his cold lifeless fingers were on the back of my neck, he was crying. His grip got tighter as I stood up, he pushed me back down. I yelled at him to let me go, but every time I spoke he would squeeze harder. Then he pushed me. I rolled down the stairs, my knees were already red from being pushed on the carpet, my arms had bruises on them from him grabbing me so hard, and now after hitting my head on the railing I lay flat on the floor at the bottom of those twelve stairs, looking up at a person that I once upon a time thought I loved. I stared into his eyes until he went back into his room and dialed someone’s number. It took me a few minutes to get up; I grabbed my purse and jacket, walked out of his house and walked down the street to Courtney’s . I was like a zombie in a trance. It wasn’t true, I was dreaming, this did not just happen. My knees buckled when I entered her room, I sobbed for three hours, went home and went to bed. The next day at school, he told me I was crazy and it never happened. I only told my closest friends, because I knew him and no one would have believed me.
This scar it runs deep, there is no escaping it. I can put it out of my mind for months at a time, but it never goes away. When a man hits you, a piece of yourself dies, and you can never get that back, especially a man who was supposed to love you. A man who had no problem putting your troubles aside so he could get laid, who would turn around the next day and act like you never existed. A man who put his hands on me with full intention to hurt and inflict pain. As I said earlier, I was no angel I played my part in our fights, but never once did I do anything that deserved what I got. Six years later, and this wound is wide open.
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