The timeline of events from my moving in with my dad and brother to my departure from that situation only spanned about two years. I was twelve when he met my current stepmom, Sukie. By this point, his preferences in women showed a clear pattern. Hair in some shade of red, HDC status, and an attitude to match were the qualities that the women in his life have all shared. It’s comical, in a way, because my dad is the stereotypical beanpole attracted to bigger women, or HDC’s (Heavy Duty Cutie) as he refers to them.
Sukie has a daughter J and a son, Bubba. Bubba is only a couple years older than me, and J is about five years older than him. If I reach deep into my clouded memories, I can piece together fragments to tell this portion of my story. I don’t quite recall the events leading to my dad, brother, and I moving to the coast and into Sukie’s home, but I do remember the baby shower for J.
She was pregnant with a baby boy and Sukie held a shower for their large family in her cozy home. It was in the Spring of 2007, and Baby Boy arrived in May. I was entranced by this black-haired little prince. J allowed me to tag along with her little family as they settled into their home a couple blocks from the one into which my dad and brother had just moved. I stayed there for the remainder of that summer. J took advantage of the cheap baby-sitting services and was sure to provide cigarettes and alcohol as payment. She and her fiancé held little parties quite frequently, and I was overjoyed at having Baby Boy to care for and new “friends” with whom I partied and drank regularly. I was only 12 years old, but I felt like one of the adults. I remember having such a big crush on J’s friend’s brother. He was 17, and he was cute. That’s all that mattered in my young mind. Let’s not focus on my poor decision making. I had been through some trauma and was living in a completely different world. There were nights where I drank to the point of blacking out. One of these nights, I can remember standing in one room airing up the air mattress. The next moment, I was in the bathroom running bath water over a drunk teenaged friend of Bubba’s while he lay there covered in his own vomit. At least, I think it was his. A blink takes me to the kitchen where a glass has shattered on the floor. Next, I’m on the air mattress pinned under someone. Hot, alcohol fumes fanned over my face as he panted drunkenly. That’s it. I don’t remember anything else about that night. I don’t know if anything happened. Many nights like this occurred in a similar fashion. I like to pretend that one bit on the air mattress was imagined. I can remember the taste of the bright green sour apple pucker. I came to this realization after draining two large glasses of the tart drink that it was straight liquor. The dawning of this realization was followed hastily by another night of blacking out. We always had Smirnoff in various flavors to help wash down whatever liquor we tried. A menthol Newport further fueled the buzz. I can still remember the cool, minty smoke I’d inhale and hold after a deep drag. I spent many nights with a bottle of Smirnoff hooked in my fingers as I leaned against the sliding glass door and gazed out into the night. Mon, J’s fiancé, would always have Pita bread to help “soak up” some of the alcohol. Unfortunately, my underaged stomach was ill equipped to handle the onslaught of foreign, psychoactive substances. I was a frequent visitor to the bathroom where I would pass out on the cool tiles.
The summer ended far too quickly as I was yanked harshly back to reality. I had to start my seventh-grade year at a new school. St Martin Middle School was mostly comprised of trailers due to the destruction wrought by Hurricane Katrina nearly two years prior. I can remember my nerves buzzing as I tried to tamp down the anxiety. I told myself repeatedly that I’d already done this countless times. Despite this reminder, I was filled with dread at the thought of intruding on the lives of these students who’d likely shared classes for years. I was an outsider.
I always looked forward to the end of the school day when I could feed my addiction to nicotine. When my brother and I got desperate enough, we would smoke the remnants of Sukie’s cigarette butts. We were never more excited than when we saw a nearly whole cigarette left in the ashtray. Apparently, addiction to nicotine can have a stronger grip on your mind when it’s as underdeveloped as ours were.
The days fell into a routine of similar fashion. On school nights I would sneak out of the window to play ding dong ditch, or spend my time getting wasted at J’s. I’m not sure how much my dad or his girlfriend even noticed. I do recall the fallout when I came back inside from a sneaky smoke break to find them both waiting with arms crossed. I was caught. I thought I was clever enough to hide the evidence by spraying cheap fragrances and rinsing my mouth with mouthwash. Unfortunately for me, it was not enough. After leaning in to catch the scent of cigarettes on me, my dad’s face twisted into a mask of anger I’d yet to encounter. This was only the first of many fights to come. I don’t know exactly why I chose to do the things I was doing. I was having too much fun with my newfound “freedom,” and I didn’t think I was doing anything truly detrimental to my health and safety. As far as my dad is concerned, I’m still not sure what really triggered him. Was he bitter and resentful of my intrusion of his new home with his new family? Was I a painful reminder of a past he’d rather leave behind? I’ve been told numerous times that I look and act like my mother. This has had various meanings depending on the situation. My dad has usually said it with contempt, while some have done so in a complimentary manner. I’ve always remained in a state of confusion over how I should feel when such comparisons were made.
Anyway, I was about to talk about how everything built up and eventually blew up. I can’t remember the specific circumstances leading up to the big fight, but I do remember certain words that were said. I had been continuously acting out in ways that were completely irresponsible and inappropriate for a then thirteen-year-old girl. Frankly, I’m surprised (and grateful) that I didn’t end up with an STD, a child, or even dead. I suppose my dad had had enough of my attitude and behavior and realized he would have to face the situation rather than continue to ignore it. He brought me to the bedroom he shared with Sukie and proceeded to question my behavior. The details of the conversation are hazy, but I know the atmosphere was tense. After a while of going back and forth, my dad and I, with the periodic interjected opinion of Sukie, began to raise our voices at each other in an effort to be heard. Neither of us was truly listening to the other or really understood. How could he know what I had been through? We never really talked about anything. How could I understand what he wanted from me? He had no communication skills whatsoever. At some point, I shouted that I’d rather die than live there with them through gasping sobs. I know, it was dramatic, but if you’d been a hormonal teenager who’d been through Hell, you’d have said that and more. Well, my dad, being the jokester that he is, fetched his gun and pointed it at me. “If that’s what you really want, I can make that happen,” he said with a manic look in his eyes. However sarcastic or meaningless this may have been in my father’s mind, this memory has always haunted me. It was also my final straw. I’d called his mother, my Nanna, previously and begged that she allow me to come live with her and my Pawpaw. This time was different. She must have heard the desperation in my pleas because the next thing I knew, I had moved out of my dad’s home on the coast and back to Oak Grove.
There isn’t any reason for me to write about living with my Nanna, but I will begin my next chapter with that so I can lay a background for how I met the co-creator of my child.
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