In my previous post, I covered a vast amount of time. I finished the last sentence and exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. This whole endeavor terrifies me, in all honesty. I read part one of my trauma narrative to my Nanna and had difficulty explaining that none of this is against or about anyone. This is simply a narrative of what I’ve experienced. Writing it out and putting physical form to thoughts that have haunted me may have some sort of healing effect or it may only hurt some who read it. Regardless of what emotions my tales elicit, I must see this arduous task through. I will do whatever it takes to become whole and healthy to be the mother P deserves. I know it may not be easy to read some of the things written in these posts. Trust me, I’ve lived through them. This post will likely be the hardest to make it through and place out there for any to see. I’ve felt shame, anguish, and confusion due to what I suffered at the hands of John, the boyfriend I mentioned in my last post. I refuse to continue feeling this way. I did nothing wrong. Here goes.
Those days spent at the trailer in Iuka were not all bad. I have fond memories of rolling down the hill from the highway in the snow that winter. It was the first experience I remember where it snowed and actually covered the yard. That February, I grew close to a classmate of mine. His name was Matthew. You’ll find this funny towards the end of my trauma narrative, or if you already know some of my most recent story. He was a sweet boy who bought me candy and drinks when we went to break. He asked me to the Valentine’s Dance, and I enthusiastically agreed. Was this to be my first “real” boyfriend? Mom took me dress shopping at the local Goodwill. We found a hideous pink frilly dress that would fit perfectly with the theme. The morning of the dance I found a teddy bear with a little bucket full of chocolate awaiting me on my desk. A sweet card covered in hearts lay alongside it with my name on it. I was so in love for an 11-year-old girl.
Life at home took a turn for the worst as the fighting grew more frequent and explosive. From my understanding, my dad bribed my mom with a hefty sum and gained sole custody of my brother in return. I chose to stay with my mom. I felt she needed me. I couldn’t just leave her. John’s mask of boyish charm and humor was replaced with his true visage. He would rage as Mom would. Their volatile emotions and tempers would fuel each other until any within their vicinity were affected by the blast. I foolishly placed myself between John and my mother on more than one occasion. Luckily, in these instances I was flung away rather quickly and only had a lump on my head or prints on my upper arm to show for it. As their hatred grew for each other, my mom would refuse John’s advances and apologies. One night, I heard their words fade as his fist slammed against their bedroom door. I expected to hear the usual sound of the car’s engine and tires on the gravel as he left to do whatever he did to cool off. I lay in bed waiting for this sound, but instead I heard the sound of the floor outside my bedroom creaking. It was silent for a while, and I must’ve dozed off. The next thing I remember is a hot, callused hand pressing over my mouth. Before I had the chance to realize what was happening, I heard John’s low drawl in my ear. He told me, “Shut the fuck up, or else your brother is dead, your momma is dead, and then you’ll be dead. Ya hear me?” He shook my shoulder roughly as he awaited my response. By this point I was trembling so badly I swore my teeth would crack from the chattering. I hurriedly nodded as the tears began to flow. I thought he was going to beat me. I felt his breath tickle the hairs on the back of my neck. It felt like he was breathing me in. He kept one hand on my mouth while the other made its way from my shoulder down my shaking body. Mom had explained what sex was and how babies were made in anticipation of the arrival of my period. I was still a child in every way. I hadn’t had my period, yet, and I didn’t fully understand how sex worked. When his hand leisurely traveled my body and reached my panties, I was frozen with fear. All I knew is that this felt wrong. His big rough fingers grabbed and prodded as he seemed to get more excited. He started kissing the back of my neck as his hand left my body. I heard what sounded like the click of a lotion bottle’s lid. The next thing I felt was agony as I was torn open. I couldn’t even utter a sound even if his hand hadn’t been nearly suffocating me. I was gasping in pain as tears tracked down my face. I tried to scramble away, but I was tiny and ineffective against this monster that’d invaded me. It felt as though hours dragged by as I endured this torment. I could hear his panting and feel the repetitive motion grow more frenzied. I could barely tell when he’d finished with me, as the pain only grew. He kissed my forehead gently before I turned my head to sob into my pillow. “Good girl,” he whispered before he made his departure. I couldn’t move. I was broken. My body was no longer my own. The monster wasn’t in my closet or under my bed. He’d been inside me. He still was. My mind felt broken, as well. I couldn’t seem to process what had just happened. I only remember laying there until I saw daylight peeking through my window. A while later, I heard the jingle of keys and the front door clicking shut. I listened to the sound of the gravel crunching underneath the tires fade gradually. It was some time before I could convince my body that I was still in control. I slowly lifted myself up and swung my legs around to the edge of my bed. I placed my feet on the icy floor and winced as I rose from the bed. I cautiously exited my bedroom and dashed into the bathroom. I was petrified of the thought that my mom might discover what had happened and blame me. I looked myself over in the mirror and saw a slight bruise underneath my cheekbone from where his thumb had pressed so hard the night before. I did a mental assessment of my body and found I was still in so much pain. However, from my mom’s explanation of sex involving the penetration of the vagina, I wondered if I was still technically a virgin. He barely touched me there. He chose to violate me in a different, almost more horrific, way. I felt stickiness between my thighs. When I looked down, I couldn’t quite see anything. I felt myself and brought a shaking hand up to find blood. I hastily turned the knobs in the shower until steam was wafting through the bathroom. I scrubbed until I was sure I’d removed every trace of what had happened. I was more gently when I neared the more tender parts of my abused body. I choked on a sob before swallowing it down. If I came out of the bathroom with reddened eyes from crying, my mom would see me and know.
All the fears of discovery were for nothing. My mom had apparently left with John that morning. I didn’t see either of them for a few days. I was grateful they at least left some food behind for me this time. I was also thankful for the time I was given for my body to heal and my mind to shove the incident into a shadowy corner. More time passed in a manner similar to that before. Shouts, slamming doors, and boxing matches were regular occurrences that no longer caused me to run in fear. I would quietly sneak from the room so as not to draw unwanted attention. Some of the times my mom would leave, she would take me with her. I liked these times because I had her to myself. It felt like I was important and mattered. Some of the houses we went to were nice. One place had a Gamecube that I was allowed to play all night. Another had a huge fish tank with these black and silver striped fish. A scrawny man who smelled like beer leaned over me to point at the fish. His grin revealed his few remaining teeth to be in the process of decay as he explained to me that they were cichlids. They were referred to as convicts. He told me to pick some out to take with me when I left. I brushed cigarette buttes and some syringes out of the way so I could sit on the grimy couch cushion in the corner. I kicked my legs impatiently as I waited for Mom to come out of the back room. My next memory is of my mom snapping her fingers in my ear in an attempt to wake me from my sleep. She was rushing me to tie my shoes when the scrawny man thrust a bag of greenish water in my face. I found three of the ugliest fish I’d ever seen swimming in the little baggie. I gave the scrawny man a small smile in thanks. It really was a heartwarming gesture.
In the coming days I only had to go through John’s attentions once more. That time I remained as limp as I could in the hopes that he would hurt me as much. I kept my mind trained on all the ways I could kill someone, including myself. I was distracted enough by visions of sharp-edged knives sliced through the soft skin of my neck that I could almost not feel what was happening to my body. I swore to myself that John would be repaid in kind one day. I envisioned him in a vulnerable state where I could exact revenge on him. I held on to these hopes for many years to come.
I’m not sure when, but we moved soon to another house. I can’t quite remember where this one was. The times following my abuse blur together. I do remember a fight that ended in my mom on the floor of the living room leaned against the wall. Her eyes were rolled back, and her head lolled on her neck. In my panic, I ran from the house to find someone with a phone. I came upon someone who let me use their phone to dial 911. I came back to the house to find my mom had regained some sort of consciousness. She slurred something unintelligible. I leaned closer and she mumbled something about sugar. I raced to the fridge to find something. I grabbed a bottle of Coke from the shelf and brought it to her lips in a desperate attempt to revive her. Though I did not know it then, my mom had not been keeping her diabetes under control and had somehow allowed it to drop to a dangerous low. The ambulance came and assessed mom. She waved them off and reassured them she was fine until they left. She turned to me with eyes that were blazing. She was pissed that I had called 911. She yelled and screamed at me as she found something to beat me with. She hurled insults at me that she was sure would cut me as deep as the knife I’d imagined at my own throat numerous times. She told me I was to blame for the problems she and John had. He wouldn’t hurt her if I weren’t around.
At some point either my mom or I must have called my dad to come get me. All I can remember is a fishbowl with my ugly black and silver fish sloshing water out as I peered out the rear window for a final glance at my momma. I didn’t know I wouldn’t see her again for another five or six years.
My body has long since healed from the events of my eleventh year on this earth. My mind is another story. I have never told anyone the full story of what I experienced at the hands of John. John Scott Miller. I remember his name. I remember his face. I remember the drawl of his voice. I remember bits and pieces of many things, but John I remember with a clarity I wish I had with schoolwork. He still has a piece of me. I still daydream and imagine things I would love to do to him. He needs to be punished, but my last check found him to still be in a prison somewhere in North Mississippi. For now, I can leave that alone. I have plenty more to focus on, as it is. For now, I’ll pause my story, again. Mom’s part is over, for the most part. She only made a few more appearances later down the road, anyway.
If you’ve read this far, I hope you don’t think less of me. This was difficult to put into words. I am not the most organized writer, and I’m finding it pretty hard to decipher some of my memories. Thank you for coming to this point with me. Things weren’t quite as bad after this. I promise, some things are much better.
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