Incest Survivors Diary

Incest: What A Damaged Child Grows Up To Be

2011-12-17T17:59:00.000-08:00

My heart ached when I went online to see how incest was received in the online community. Imagine my surprise to see sites like: Lesbian sisters, incest sex sites, brother and sister incest, sex with brother and not feeling guilty, uncensored incest sex.

Incest happens in families. It use to be a secret. Now it has gotten to the point that those who have fallen victim have turned the acts into some romantic delusion, down playing the psychological harm it does to a child.

In looking into the online community, the children have grown up now to accept this as their lot in life, to portray an image of sexual enjoyment without little regard to who they once were, just little children with no choices, or their choices. . . (read complete article click here).

Living My Best Life Now As An Abuse Survivor

2011-12-11T16:15:00.000-08:00

Do you know who you are? A question I asked myself often standing in front of the mirror. Today I am free. My transparency has increased. I am bold in speaking to others about what God has done, how my spiritual life has transformed my past physical condition.

I have reconciled with my family who are still alive. My outlook on life is optimistic. There are moments, challenges, and struggles but I refuse to give in to the temptations that once controlled my life. Do you know who you are?

I am living my best life now. I held on to the gorilla long enough. It was my choice, just like it is your choice. I thought I was holding on to get even, to destroy, but instead I was allowing the best years of my life to drain away.

Living the best life now is about de-cluttering your mind, being willing to let go of the past, to embrace something new, a new you, to rid yourself of the things that have kept you from the joy and peace of mind that can be found in a renewed spiritual relationship.

Meet the survivors (click here)

Diary of an Incest Survivor Is Now Published

2011-10-01T16:15:00.000-07:00

Thank you for your interest in the story of how I made it through a past that could have caused me
to live in misery forever. No matter what you once thought as a child in that situation, violated by an adult there is hope for you.

Looking back the Rise Above My Father's Abandonment is a journey from the separation of my parents and life in the hands of people I thought were family and had my best interest at heart.

If you are a person who is still in need of healing, perhaps you might find some help at this site: www.emotionalhealingfountain.info.

The story has been published as The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment. The deepest hurts don't have to take a lifetime to heal (click here)

Conversations With God Part 22

2011-02-04T15:36:00.000-08:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment. Order your copy here)

Living in my mother’s house as an adult wasn’t easy. I felt the guilt of disappointing my family. They had scraped together what monies they could to marry me off and now it was over. McMillan comforted me by saying that I had made the right decision.

I stayed out of mother’s way. I did my share of the chores and kept Christopher occupied with parks, museums, and movies so he wouldn’t be in the way. My job was secure. Vincent was enjoying our office romance. My affair with McMillan was like a storybook. He was full of surprises. Some mornings he would show up with a rose or some type of gift. He liked to see me smile.

I bought my first car while dating McMillan, but he never let that stop him from driving me around. On the mornings he drove me to work we ate breakfast together. We were the envy of everyone’s eye.
Leaving his wife was out of the question. I didn’t want to spoil what we had. I reminded McMillan that I left Ferguson because he was not good for me, not to pressure him into a permanent relationship. I reassured him that I wasn’t looking to be anymore to him than what we were.

McMillan made me feel powerful. I wasn’t the same naive kid. I was developing into a mature woman, taking control of my life. I was enjoying my newfound freedom. McMillan knew nothing about Vincent, but Vincent commented about McMillan picking me up in the afternoons. I played it off. Sometimes on McMillan’s arrival Vincent would buzz me into his office and remind me that he didn’t want me sleeping with anyone else because I belonged to him. I thought, “You have a lot of nerve. This office romance was your idea and now you want to tell me who I can be with when I leave here.” I smiled and walked away.

McMillan recognized Vincent’s thing for me. Vincent was slipping. He was losing his cool. I stopped McMillan from coming to the office. I hated what I was doing with Vincent. It was wrong but I couldn’t get control of the situation enough to change it.

The announcement came that Vincent was getting married. I don’t know what I felt, if anything. I hoped the marriage would be the end of our office affair. He brought his fiancée to the office to introduce her to the staff. Her name was Marilyn. She seemed like a nice lady. Later, I found out it was a marriage of convenience. He was planning to run for Mayor of New York and it looked good for him to be a family man. I wondered if Marilyn knew what she was getting into.

Vincent and Marilyn got married. She got pregnant right away. The women never stopped coming around. They chased his status and material wealth. I thought they were crazy for throwing themselves at him. I never confused our sexual relationship for love or commitment. There were times when he would ask me to shield him from the calls and visits from other women. Vincent didn’t want love or commitment, just sex. The women he attracted didn’t understand that.

My job performance didn’t suffer because I was among Vincent’s stable of female relationships. This built his confidence and trust in me. Vincent’s political aspirations began to surface. My task was to help him keep a clean image. I liked this. It intrigued me. It reminded me of the spy stories I had seen on T.V.

Vincent started changing. He talked to me about how different I was. He wanted to know why I never got upset with him when other women phoned or visited his office. I told him that I could not afford to let my personal feelings get in the way of business. I could see that didn’t satisfy him.

“Why have you kept our affair secret,” He said? I told him there was no need to let the world know about one’s dirty laundry, that it wasn’t a proper thing for a lady to do. It troubled him that I could switch from sex on his sofa or desk, adjust my clothes, and shift back into the official business of being his secretary.

Vincent’s trust extended to babysitting his kid. Marilyn would drop the kid off at the office and I would care for her until they returned. Vincent soon recognized I had other abilities other than sex. I took every opportunity to display my ability to make decisions affecting the operation of his office and to manage staff situations. Vincent placed me in charge of his duties, gave me complete charge of his office.

Our office affair wasn’t enough for him. Vincent taught me how to use him to get what I wanted. I learned how to put a price on my time at the company’s expense. Knowing I was having sex with Vincent and McMillan, and neither were the wiser, made me feel in control.

I didn’t use birth control or condoms. Disease didn’t cross my mind. The men didn’t care and neither did I. I played Russian Roulette with my body. Getting pregnant wasn’t my concern.That attitude introduced me to my first abortion. I took no precaution, but a baby out of wedlock was out of the question.

The first abortion I had was by a nurse friend of my mother who did it in her home. I have forgotten what she looked like. All I remember was this woman walking toward me with a coat hanger and how I shook in fear. McMillan was there. He assumed the responsibility for my condition. He didn’t want me to abort the child. I was surprised at his unconditional acceptance and the remorse I saw in his behavior. We knew that a baby would only complicate matters. I didn’t want him to come to me that way. I wasn’t worthy of bringing another child into the world, so I thought, “Kill it,” would be the best solution.

The Voice: “That’s because you didn’t think it was a real person in the fetal stage. Now you know, and you have been forgiven.”

I thought it was a mistake you could erase. Vincent was promoted to Vice President Of Operations for the corporation that administered the day-to-day operations of the municipal hospitals. I was being groomed to be his right-hand. I handled my new responsibilities like a pro.

I was a kid in age but my life experiences had taught me to adapt quickly, to be prepared. My mother’s attitude birthed the idea of always having a backup plan. I applied that to running Vincent’s office. I learned to think on my feet, make fast decisions. I became a possibility thinker. Vincent sought my opinions and entrusted me with matters concerning his day-to-day operations as Vice President. Me, a kid with no formal business education, just a high school diploma. I had proven myself. I hired and fired staff. My outer worth was apparent, but inside, I felt undeserving. I refused to dwell on it.

I solved day-to-day problems and reported to Vincent. The more I proved myself, the more he delegated.

Conversations With God Part 21

2011-01-18T18:31:00.000-08:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com/bookstore.html)

My marriage was only one of my concerns. I couldn’t bring myself to tell McMillan how Vincent exploited me. I basked in the positive influence McMillan brought to my life. To this day I believe that he was sent to help me get through that period in my life. The right person always seemed to come when I needed them.
I saw him everyday. We couldn’t get enough of each other.

I would have him meet Christopher and I in the park. Each time we met I shared more of my painful past. He listened. I was high on him. I did whatever I could to spend time with him. He told me about his wife and four kids. His wife didn’t want to have sex with him, so she gave him permission to look elsewhere for sexual pleasure and companionship.

We talked about our kids. We came to an agreement not to talk negatively about his wife. I could tell he loved her. I didn’t understand why any woman with a guy like him would give her consent to an affair, but I didn’t dwell on it. The attraction between us was overwhelming. We met in motels away from both of our spouses. There was no sex in the beginning. Much of our time was spent conversing. The sex between us came naturally. I didn’t feel threatened. I desired him. It felt good to reach out. I had no guilt or feelings of worthlessness. We pleased each other. The first time we made love was special. I couldn’t get enough of him.

We were so into each other it became necessary to set ground rules: His wife and kids came first. I made it clear if he neglected his wife and kids that it would be over between us. I was never lonely. McMillan and I spent our free time together. We adored each other.

Passion burned between us. McMillan was full of surprises. He loved giving me gifts and taking me out on the town. We had great sex together. We were in love. One evening as we settled into our motel room, I asked McMillan about his wife and kids. He told me his mother was at his house because his wife had a cold. Anger burned in me. I jumped up and began pacing the floor. “No, we can’t stay here. You’ve got to go home. I won’t let you do this; they come first, not me; I can wait.”

We prepared to leave. What was I trying to prove? I was the mistress; I accepted that role; in that capacity there was no obligation; we were fulfilling a need. I could see he didn’t know how to respond to my behavior. I went home to Ferguson and he went home to his wife.

I was irritated by Ferguson’s presence in my life. I found it hard to pretend. I didn’t want to be with him. I wanted out. I gained strength and courage from my relationship with McMillan. My adulterous behavior haunted me but I felt justified because Ferguson cheated on me.

Until the afternoon Christopher, blurted out, “Mommy kissed this man in the park,” Ferguson’s anger had been controllable but this day, he flew into a rage—He slapped me. Obscenities and threats spewed out of his mouth. Christopher screamed, “Stop hitting my Mommy.” It didn’t phase Ferguson. The kid ran at him, flailing his arms. Ferguson picked him up and threw him on the sofa. Christopher wasn’t hurt, just surprised.

I gathered my courage. I deserved what he did to me but not Christopher. I vowed never to allow anyone to hurt my son, not even his father. My anger peaked. I spoke without giving thought to what was coming out, “If you touch him again, I’ll kill you.” Surprised at what came out of my mouth, Ferguson stopped and stared. I could see the hurt in his face. I felt sorry for him but his feelings didn’t matter.

I wanted to hear him say he was sorry, that he understood why I cheated on him, that he didn’t want to lose me but he didn’t. Instead he got dressed and left, leaving me feeling rejected. Had he said those things, maybe I would never have seen McMillan again. After all, I had put up with his adulterous behavior and tried to make a go of it. That day I wanted him to take me in his arms and forgive me. He never asked why. I wanted to explain but he wasn’t interested. I never got to tell my side of the story. He said he couldn’t forgive me.

It hurt to know that he was willing to throw away our marriage on one mistake; he didn’t want to try. It wasn’t fair. By now McMillan was in my head and my heart. I knew I couldn’t stop seeing him. Especially, after Ferguson slapped me and told me it was over.

Life at the office didn’t help my failing marriage. Vincent saw my swollen face. I confided in him. His only concern was that I hadn’t told Ferguson about him. He offered no real comfort or concern past that. Having my body was all that mattered to him.

I was living a double life. I lost touch with who I was. I allowed myself to be used. Being a mistress was a safe spot. From there I didn’t have to be me; I could be someone else. Multi-relationships were safe because I could control the amount of emotion I gave another person.

Talk about crazy in love. I loved McMillan. My time with McMillan was not enough. I felt good about myself. He brought out the best feelings in me. It was my desire to have more of him. I came up with a plan to get away. We made plans to go to Danbury, Connecticut, three hours from Brooklyn. I called my Aunt Viola and asked if she could take Christopher for the weekend. She lived in New Jersey. I told Ferguson of my plans. I didn’t anticipate Aunt Viola saying no; I couldn’t turn back.

Ferguson took me to the bus station. I hadn’t been out of New York since I came, not to mention on a bus with a small child. I was willing to risk it. I boarded the bus with my luggage. Christopher made himself comfortable on my lap and fell asleep. All I could think about was being with McMillan. As the bus pulled into the Jersey Station, I became aware that I needed an extra set of hands to carry a sleeping child, plus luggage. I struggled off the bus with Christopher and collected my luggage.

I called my aunt, hoping that once she heard that I was there she would consent to pick Christopher up. Aunt Viola was angry. She reluctantly consented to pick us up at the station. Right after I hung up the phone I looked up and there stood McMillan, smiling. I was glad to see him. That was typical of the way he did things. How he knew I needed him in that moment I don’t know. I was scared of what Aunt Viola would say. I’d hoped she would understand without forming judgments. I told McMillan that she was on the way. She pulled up, we exchanged greetings and hugs. I told her Christopher wasn’t going home with her.

McMillan took us back to New York where Christopher spent the weekend with his Godmother. Why didn’t I think of that first? McMillan took me on to Connecticut. It was a weekend of bliss. I never knew that two people could enjoy each other’s company so much, have so much fun. We were made for each other. He took charge but he didn’t take over. McMillan brought out the best in me. He wined and dined me in fancy restaurants. He showed me how to appreciate life. That weekend I was a free spirit and loving every bit of it.

My good time was interrupted by a mood change to remind me that I didn’t deserve to feel good about myself or to have a good time. McMillan coaxed me into talking about how I felt while he listened. Then he would remind me how beautiful I was, that I deserved the best of everything. Talking to him was easy. McMillan was more than a lover; he was a friend.

It was a weekend to remember. We window shopped in the malls and took pictures of each other. McMillan enjoyed snapping my photos. We played on the beaches. The fear of having to face Ferguson surfaced. I thought, “One more day. If I’m going to catch hell, I might as well enjoy it a little longer.”

Christopher spent an extra day with his Godmother. When McMillan and I returned, the word was that Aunt Viola had told everything, including the part about me being with a man. My mother was furious. I expected her reaction. McMillan stayed with me. He refused to leave me to face the situation alone. Ferguson had put the word out that he was going to kill me.

Christopher’s Godmother volunteered to take care of him until I worked things out, until the tempers quieted down. I made a decision to leave Ferguson, but I didn’t know where I was going to live. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I lived for the adventure of the moment. I had some money but I didn’t have any idea how much an apartment would cost or how to go about getting one. McMillan was there to help me to sort through my situation but he never told me what I should do. He reassured me that no one was going to put a hand on me.

The day drew to a close, I contacted my mother. She told me to repair the relationship with Ferguson for Christopher’s sake because he was my husband. She wanted me to compromise again, to submit. I was tired of being submissive and having others take advantage of me. I went to my mother’s house with what clothes I had taken on the trip. I didn’t care if Ferguson gave me my clothes or anything else from the apartment. I found someone who respected and cared about me, who nurtured me with love and understanding.

Continue with Part 22

Conversations With God Part 20

2010-12-28T10:40:00.000-08:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com/bookstore.html)

The Voice: “That was me. I stopped you because your standing trial for murder was not a part of the plan.”

I had come to know this protective veil or force in many situations I faced, especially when anger was involved. Ferguson’s life was spared that day by some force greater than I could imagine. I intended to kill him. I had tried to take revenge by my own hands but was prevented.

The Voice: “I always kept that angry child intact, the warrior who was willing to die to defend you. The peace you felt was my love surrounding you.”

“God, I praise you and thank you for preserving me, keeping me from harming or taking the life of another,” I thought.

The incident with Ferguson was over. I had buried the incident deep in the recesses of my mind until I began this writing.

In the days that followed: I dreamed of a knight in shining armor. I lost interest in Ferguson. I prayed to be rescued from the big bad wolf. Ferguson controlled the money. I didn’t have a job. It was time to employ the skills I had been teaching myself at home. He didn’t want me to work, but I convinced him that my income would increase our savings and we could have more. He agreed. My mother worked in a hospital. She gave me a job lead in the Administration Department of the hospital.

Preparation was over. Now it was job time. It was time to put my home training in action. I was ready. I went through the interview. Everything went smooth. I was on my way. I found a sitter for Christopher. Things were working out. I wasn’t happy about taking Christopher to a sitter but I figured he would get over it. He had to learn to adapt to changes in life. Christopher and I needed time away from each other. I was getting tired of talking to a kid.

Ferguson was surprised that I was able to get a good paying job with my self-taught skills. He wasn’t laughing now. My new position would be challenging. I would be one of three girls in a one-man office. I started working directly with the Administrator of the hospital. He was tall, smooth brown skin, medium build. He was single. All the ladies found him attractive and were always throwing themselves at him. I was curious at all of his attention. I wondered what he had that caused such a big to do among the ladies. There was a trail of females in and out of his office.

His Administrative Assistant had been with him for a couple of years. Her name was Deborah Williams. Patricia was her Clerk Assistant. I was impressed with a lady being in charge of an office. I had never seen this but it sparked something inside of me. Little did Deborah know that she was being watched. I was taking mental notes of everything she did.

Vincent seemed pleasant enough until he started calling me into his office instead of Deborah. It was creating a rift. I could feel the tension. The girls didn’t like it. I didn’t know what to make of his behavior. Before I got settled in, or even knew what Deborah’s job was, she was transferred to another department, and I was given her job over the other girl who had been there longer because I had the typing and shorthand skills. Patricia, apparently, had no interest in getting the additional training in order to advance.

Soon after Deborah’s transfer, Vincent began to summon me to sit in his office with him while he went through his paper work. Most of the time I would just be sitting there. I thought, “Why am I sitting and watching him?”

Then the touching started. It blossomed into passionate kisses. He was single; I was married. I felt trapped. He didn’t respect my marriage. My mind was filled with thoughts of why this was happening to me; what was it about me that everybody seemed to want. I questioned: “Will I ever be able to find peace or will I always have to give in? Where can I run?”

I wanted to leave Ferguson. This job was my livelihood. Vincent suggested that I hire another girl to help out in the office because he wanted me available to service him. I tried not to look at Vincent as a lover but it didn’t work. I was vulnerable to whatever touch I could get. I needed someone to be close to. It didn’t matter if he was only interested in my body.

Vincent had all of the trappings of success. He kept coming on stronger. I justified his kisses and touching with, “He’s going to take me places; this won’t be in vain.” On the one hand, I was thinking I would secure my job if I had sex with him, but I couldn’t help thinking: “This is all wrong. I’m a married woman.”

He didn’t want to take “no” for an answer and I couldn’t say “no” to him. I let him have his way with me, though I hated myself for it. I couldn’t stand up to him. He told me he had to have me so I gave in. Every day I would dress without underwear so that he could have easy access. Vincent enjoyed the intrigue of sex in the office. I sank deeper and deeper into hopelessness and despair.

I gave Vincent the best acting job I could muster up. He took advantage of me but he was teaching me to be the master. We used each other. He was in charge of his office but I was in charge of pleasing him; he liked it.

Ferguson and I were not doing well but I remained in the house. Once I got a job the boyfriend accusations stopped. It didn’t matter because I was doing what he had accused me of. Vincent and I had no commitment to each other. I was his office sex mate. I began to feel more relaxed in that position. He wanted sex, and I wasn’t going to interpret it for love, or a future. I thought being Vincent’s mistress was all the happiness I deserved. I blamed Ferguson for my being in this situation.

I didn’t have a lot of friends, but I became friendly enough with Andrea to car pool daily with her to work. She worked in another department. Andrea had sickle cell. She always seemed to have health problems; she complained all the time about her ailments. Her elegance in the way she dressed and wore her makeup made me think of her as pretty but when she opened her mouth it was not so pleasing. Secretly, I was thinking that I should learn to dress better and to apply cosmetics. I looked homely next to Andrea but I liked the way I looked and admired the way she looked; it was okay for her.

I began to notice Andrea’s conversation in the mornings centered around this new guy she met. I hadn’t met him but the way she talked about him I knew a lot about him. My home situation preoccupied my mind. I didn’t really care about Andrea’s new boyfriend.

This particular morning we were on our way to work. I pointed out the flashing lights behind us. “What had Andrea done?” I thought. After we had been pulled over I realized that one of the two officers was her boyfriend. I didn’t find it amusing. I was annoyed by the misuse of their police authority.

While Andrea and this guy were chatting on the driver’s side, the other fellow came around to my window and introduced himself as McMillan. I could tell he was older. I judged that by the loss of hair on the top of his head. I noticed his Jamaican accent right away. It took a few minutes for his personality to grow on me. First impression, I didn’t like him, and he didn’t have attractive facial features.

At first, I was shy about talking to him because married women didn’t openly talk to men outside of their husbands. I didn’t think it was the proper thing to do but he persisted on having a conversation. I told him I was married, in hopes of getting rid of him, but he kept coming on. At this point my initial opinion of him changed. I liked him. As he continued to talk I could see he was nice and he didn’t back down when he wanted something. This turned me on. I began to like his persistent attitude.

As we pulled away I was thinking, “He’s not bad.” I was sure that would be the last time I would ever see him. Andrea and I arrived at work and as usual she went her way and I went mine.The thought of seeing Vincent didn’t make me feel too good about starting my day, but this stranger had given me something pleasant to think about.

About mid-morning a dozen red roses arrived at the office. I had never received a flower from anyone in my life. I thought, “Who could this be?” I opened the card and it said, “McMillan.” I tried not to show my excitement. The girls in the office were curious. I didn’t want to tell them that someone other than my husband had sent the flowers. I let them think what they wanted. I was on cloud nine. Was I dreaming? Someone cared enough to give me flowers.

I hadn’t anticipated that Vincent would have anything to say about the flowers. He made comments that he didn’t want to share me with anyone. I thought, “Well, you can take what you want when you want, but you cannot take my ability to chose who I spend time with when I’m not here.”

The suspicions among the girls in the office were confirmed when McMillan showed up to take me to lunch. His presence flattered me. I enjoyed the attention. I took him off to the side and reminded him that I was married, that I couldn’t go to lunch with him, to leave me alone. He convinced me to at least let him buy me lunch. I told him what I liked. When he returned he made me promise to meet him after work because he wanted to talk to me. I told him I had to pick up my baby from the sitter. He said, “I just want to talk.” I consented.

He was waiting for me in the parking lot. His sincerity gained my trust. When Andrea came I told her to go on, I was riding with McMillan. She gave me this curious look, but reluctantly went on.

McMillan and I talked and talked. He listened to my whole life story. I didn’t feel threatened by him. He gave me space to talk about my feelings. No one had ever done that. I couldn’t believe how freely I talked about my past to this stranger. It was as if he was sent just to listen to me. He never interrupted. I monopolized the time talking about my hurts. During that evening he never attempted to make a pass at me or even kiss me. He just wiped away my tears and soothed my pain with his words.

McMillan gave me hope. He made me feel that I didn’t have to settle for any less happiness. I had the right to a fulfilling life. My past seemed less disturbing after talking with him. McMillan listening to me that day helped me to sort through a bad marriage. I understood that it wasn’t the end of the world, that I could get out. It was at that meeting with McMillan I decided Ferguson didn’t deserve me.

(Part 21 coming up)

Conversations With God Part 19

2010-12-13T15:11:00.000-08:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com/bookstore.html)

The baby’s movements inside my stomach excited me. I was sure it was a girl. My hope came from my womb. The movement of the baby was validation that I was normal enough to carry life inside of me. I promised my child while still in my womb that I would do everything in my power to ensure its safety until it was old enough to take care of itself.

My delivery time was approaching fast. It would be over soon. I questioned whether I would be able to change diapers, feed and care for a child. I was apprehensive of what lay ahead with my new baby. It would be a challenge caring for someone other than myself, but I felt confident I could do it. I was convinced it would be a girl.

The morning I woke up to mild cramping, I was calm. Ferguson took me to the hospital. It was a false alarm. The doctor sent me home. Back at home the contractions came closer and closer. I was trying not to let on how severe they were. I took the pain until the severity let me know it was time to go to the hospital.

At 2:00 p.m., I was readmitted to the hospital and placed in a room alone for preparation. Frightened at the closeness of the contractions, I fought to control my breathing so that the baby wouldn’t come until someone came into the room. I was scared. I couldn’t control what was happening any longer. I screamed out, “Somebody come in here. The baby’s coming.”

People rushed in and started doing different things to the parts of my body that needed attention for the arrival of the baby. The last thing I heard just before I went under anesthesia was, “You have a beautiful baby boy.”

I responded, “What am I going to do with a boy?”

The Voice: “Now you can see why a boy child was right for you. A girl child would have triggered certain flashbacks sooner than you were prepared to deal with. There was a process you had to go through before you were ready for the truth.”

I used to hear the older people say that God knows what child to give you. Now I understand why it happened the way it did for me. I named him Christopher. His presence never threatened me. I was comfortable caring for him. As I reflected on young Christopher’s birth, familiar dialogue played in my ear. I remember the attempts by the nurse personnel to get me to interact with Christopher. One nurse made a joke about me examining him to make sure he was physically normal. I didn’t want to touch him. I had been betrayed. I didn’t want to bond with him because I didn’t want a boy.

A few days passed and I realized that I couldn’t send him back so I decided to make the best of it. By the time I left the hospital we had bonded. The thought of going home with him made me nervous. He seemed tiny, fragile. At home I would be alone and relying on my judgment.

Ferguson and mother anticipated my feelings and prepared for my arrival. There was nothing I had to think about. They bought a crib, bottles, blankets, milk, diapers, and extra towels. I didn’t have to do much, except adjust to being a mother. Ferguson was proud to be a daddy. His son was his pride and joy. His conversations centered around his son. Hearing his joy didn’t make me feel any better about his behavior prior to the baby’s arrival.

My first week at home gave me time to think about how I wanted to raise Christopher. I felt unequipped as a mother. I thought, “My son must have every advantage in life—can’t raise him with the stuff that’s on the inside of me. I want him to be perfect. Maybe I could find a book about raising kids. Yes, that’s the answer.”

I was thinking that if I raised him by the book, my past wouldn’t taint him. I didn’t want to guide him into adulthood with anger and bitterness as the foundation. I knew it was not good for a parent to negatively influence a child. I didn’t want to be guilty of that.

As soon as I was able to move around I visited the bookstore. The clerk pointed me in the right direction. I read through a number of titles and settled on a book written by a Doctor Spock. It was a comprehensive, step-by-step guide. It gave me control over parenting. I felt confident I could parent by the book, using it as a guide.

Thanks to the book I was reading, I began to feel comfortable about being a parent. I patted myself on the back.

Ferguson was gone all the time; we stopped communicating. His presence angered me. Things were getting worse. To quiet my evil thoughts of taking his life, I buried myself in books. I read more. I escaped misery by spending time in the library. I hated him. I didn’t want him to be my son’s father.

My friend Jessica crossed my mind. “It’s her fault that I got into this mess. Life doesn’t end with motherhood. I refuse to buy that lie.” At that point I knew I would never listen to another Jessica again in my life. I felt different about myself after I had the baby, like I had transformed overnight into being an adult. I was ready to take charge of my life.

During this time I even thought about my parents separation. I remembered how I thought they should have stayed together for the kids’ sake. It was clear now why they didn’t. What a lesson in wisdom. I didn’t want to stick it out. I was unhappy. Ferguson was not worth the price of my happiness.

The Voice: “By an example of your own experience you realized that in some circum-stances it is better for two people to separate. Your eyes opened as to why your mother and father didn’t stay together for the sake of the children.”

For the first time I understood why my parents felt it best to separate. I too had made the wrong choice and I wanted out. I was afraid of what my mother would say. I had been critical of my mother’s decision to bail out and now I was doing the same thing. It bothered me but I couldn’t fake my way through the marriage for the rest of my life. The question arose, “What should I do, stay in a marriage that was making me miserable or walk away?”

“No,” I heard myself say. I want to live and be happy.

One day just prior to placing Ferguson’s pants in the washer, a search of his pockets yielded a condom. Upon confrontation his indifference to my feelings caused me to snap. I grew angry. I thought, “He’s rubbing it in my face. He’s dirty. He doesn’t deserve to live.” To add to the fuel of my anger, he accused me of sneaking around and calling my boyfriend with him in the house. I had no boyfriend. I wanted to make it work with him but it seemed he had other plans. I began to have thoughts that he was manipulating my mind, attempting to make it seem like I was losing it. Panic set in, “Is he trying to push me over the edge? I can’t let him do this to me. I have to stop him.”

My rage had been building. I was ready for combat. The argument peaked. He became defensive. His indifference turned into anger. Tempers at their peak, the conversation switched to a screaming match on my part. He stood there in front of the window looking as if he had gotten the best of me. Before I knew anything I ran toward him standing in front of the window. My hand made contact with his body to push him but, to my surprise, about the same time his body made contact with the glass something caused me to snatch him back by the flesh on his stomach. The shock of whatever took control of my hand to stop me caused me to think. I didn’t feel angry any longer; I felt peace. It was as if someone had wrapped me up in this warm, fuzzy blanket and was holding and comforting me.

Once Ferguson realized how close he was to being pushed out the window, it scared him. All you could hear was: “You’re crazy.”

Continue with Part 20

Conversations With God Part 18

2010-12-13T15:05:00.000-08:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com/bookstore.html)

The Voice: “You had been robbed. You didn’t understand what was wrong then, but now you know that your virginity had already been taken from you. Your body had already been defiled.”

As I reflected on Ferguson’s face that day, it showed all. He knew the truth and I was left confused and wondering what was wrong. Perhaps that’s why I felt Ferguson didn’t respect me. Maybe he didn’t know how to express his feelings without offending me. I tried to cover up. I remember putting ketchup on the bed to cover up what the girls said happened when you lose your virginity. I wanted this to be a special moment. I had preserved myself in my mind but my body had already been violated. I remember telling myself, “Ashley, you can’t worry about it now.”

I dismissed it as just another unanswered mystery about my life. Whatever Ferguson thought was up to him. I was naive and unprepared for a sexual relationship with Ferguson.For a moment I got caught up in the memories of the past, flashbacks, old fears returned; I refused to let it linger. I put them in perspective.

High school was finished. I got a job working at the local phone company. I knew nothing about birth control at 18, and Ferguson didn’t seem to think it important because we were making plans to be married.The day I missed my period, Grandma Ethel’s voice echoed in my ears, “You ain’t never going to amount to anything but a house full of children and no man around to take care of them.” Doubts about Ferguson honoring me in marriage crept into my mind. I thought, “He’s going to run out on me.”

I denied my condition. My mind filled with questions. There was no one to talk with. I thought, “I am not the only girl who tried sex for the first time so why should I get caught?” Thoughts of what I could do to bring my period on invaded my mind, “Get a shot from the doctor, take some kind of pills.” I didn’t want to face my mother; she would be heartbroken.

“My grandmother is wrong,” I thought. This is just one mistake. Determination set in. I would overcome this situation. The idea of having a baby became more and more a reality when the morning sickness appeared. I was scared to tell my mother but I was confident that I could get through it. My mother kept asking questions about my period. I didn’t feel good about lying to her. I knew she was waiting for me to come to her but I couldn’t.

The thought of having a child to nurture, care for, and love was not so tragic. I began to think this baby was what I needed to complete my life, that maybe it was the missing link. I was preparing myself to go it alone. My pride wouldn’t allow me to beg Ferguson to give the baby his name. I underestimated Ferguson. He wanted me to have his child.

I was sleeping a lot. The lying had become a burden on my heart. I wanted it to come out. When Ferguson took me to the doctor, our suspicions were confirmed. He took control. Ferguson asked my mother for a conference. I was surprised. While they talked I hid out in my room. Later he told me they discussed our plans to get married in a few years, but the coming of a child would speed it up. He asked for my hand in marriage.

I felt relieved. Wedding plans were made. Mother and I didn’t discuss the details. She got the relatives involved; and each made his or her own contribution to the preparation. I have always been grateful to Ferguson for making an honorable woman out of me and giving our son his name. These things were important to me, but in my heart I knew this was just the beginning of another journey. My child needed a name; my happiness was unimportant.

Wedding plans finalized, the big day arrived. Joy escaped me. I was dazed, wondering was I doing the right thing. The side of Ferguson I saw I knew I couldn’t live with but I was willing to try. It was too late. Mother would never have allowed me to back out. I was silent all throughout the ceremony. I couldn’t wait until it was all over so I could go home, get away from people. It wasn’t the day I had dreamed of and looked forward to.

Mother did everything, including make my wedding dress. I was glad Ferguson wanted to marry me but I didn’t know how long I could pretend to love him.I settled into married life. Unsure of my role as expectant mother, I adjusted. Ferguson loved the idea of my carrying his child. Around others he fussed over me, touching my stomach, searching for the baby’s movements. He handled my cravings patiently. I allowed him the pleasure to cater to my cravings.

After we were married, the feeling of love I thought I had for him was not there. I didn’t love him. I doubted whether I was capable of loving another human being, even the child I was carrying. Love was too vulnerable and emotional for me. I evaluated my feelings and decided that it was too late. I was married and this type of thinking had no place. I thought I could fake it until love found a way to grow within me, but I couldn’t.

Ferguson and I set up housekeeping in our own apartment. His old habits of hanging out with friends on the weekends, playing cards, and drinking continued. I stayed at home. I was lonely. I thought that’s what a wife is suppose to do, stay home, prepare the meals, clean the house, take care of the kids, and wait on her husband to come home.

Our life before we were married centered around this same lifestyle, so why should now be any different. I didn’t like being around his friends any more. With a child coming, I was beginning to think about setting the proper example. Our idea of marriage differed. I wanted to be a better parent to my kid than my parents had been to me. It was important to me to be a family. Instead, I was trapped in a hopeless and unhappy situation.

I knew I couldn’t stay focused in this pity mode or my life would be miserable. I had to think about my child who was not to blame for my decision. I focused on getting the most out of my time alone. I wrote down my goals and what I wanted to personally improve about myself while I waited for the baby’s arrival.

Getting my emotions under control was my number one priority. Caring feelings made me vulnerable to being controlled by others. I had allowed Ferguson to control my behavior and attitude. I wanted to change that. I hated the way he left me alone all the time while he hung out. I found condoms in the pants he put out to be washed. It was evidence that he was sleeping around and he wasn’t trying to hide it. All I could think was, “A virgin deserves better than this.”

He had defiled our marriage with his adulterous behavior. I lost respect for him. My dream was that our lives would be centered around getting to know and love one another, but instead I ended up sitting alone at home with no friends. I was afraid to be left alone but I dared not complain. I focused on where I was going with my baby’s birth and our future. I used the time to prepare for a job. I wanted to be able to support my kid because I knew that Ferguson wouldn’t be around.

One day I decided to visit the library to gather information on careers. The sight of so many books and topics excited me. It always made me feel like a kid in a candy store. A room full of books. Two books in the typing section caught my attention: typing and speedwriting. I had been in possession of the typewriter my father had given me for a few years. Why not use what I already had and just add to it? I decided on a secretarial career. I chose speedwriting as opposed to the traditional shorthand.

On arrival home I began to set a goal as to how I was going to execute this plan. I set up a daily routine of study and practice times. I was back in school again, only this time it was in my apartment. My typing speed increased. I was feeling a sense of accomplishment. Ferguson made fun of me, laughed at me. I ignored his ridicule and put-downs. I wrapped myself up in my home studies and prepared for my new baby. I accepted the fact there was no room in Ferguson’s life for me.

(Part 19 to follow)

Conversations With God Part 17

2010-11-18T16:40:00.000-08:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com/bookstore.html)

The Voice: “That day you decided it was no use fighting, that you were powerless. You declared no one would ever get your love. You also said that you wouldn’t exchange sex for material things.”

I remember not feeling good about myself. I didn’t walk the street or sleep with anyone for money, but I felt as though I was not worth anything. I thought, “What is the difference between me and a prostitute?”
I never went back to Harvey’s apartment. He bought gifts and did everything he could to impress me, but I didn’t want to chance it. I thought, “What will he do next?” I wanted to preserve my virginity until I was married. I accepted Harvey’s gifts and money. Mack and I continued seeing each other. I liked him. He didn’t force himself on me. We talked often. We were friends. He listened to my problems.

The Voice: “Now you know that it was me who guided even those early relationships, so that you would benefit from the positive side of male-female encounters.”

I remember Mack being a real friend. He was never threatening. I felt good about being with him; I was in control. Mack and I made fun of Harvey. Talked about how stupid he was for thinking that he could have someone as young as I. Harvey continued buying me things, giving me money. Mack and I shared the money.

My mother didn’t like the fact Mack had dropped out of school. She saw that as a strike against him becoming anything in life. To her he was broke, not educated, going nowhere. Mother didn’t see what I saw, or knew. Mack had dropped out of school to help his parents feed his brothers and sisters. He made a personal sacrifice. He had done something special for his family’s survival. They pulled together in tough times. He had a kind heart; he cared about me.

After a couple of months, guilt got the best of me, and I refused the gifts and money from Harvey. The details of that evening with Harvey remained my secret. Mother never asked. It had to be God watching over me that evening. I couldn’t have managed on my own.

I suppressed my feelings. With each circumstance I felt more and more removed from my feelings. I wanted to remain faithful to God’s commandments but I was reluctant to disrespect my mother. I made a decision. Though I was still a child under my mother’s guidance, I took control over what I was doing with Harvey and stopped seeing him. I let him know that he couldn’t go through my mother to see me again because I would refuse.

He never mentioned it to my mother, or at least she never said anything to me. I was free of him at last.
Mack wasn’t book smart but he had a lot of common sense. The closer it got to graduation, Mack and I were losing touch as friends. Being a twirler, other boys began noticing me but I wasn’t interested.

“If only I could see him today,” I thought. If I did, I would thank him for his unconditional love, which provided what I needed to continue this journey. One day he will know how much his gentleness strengthened me, along with his words of encouragement. He was my earthly protector. Those moments with him were my validation that someone cared about me.

What to do after high school? I never thought of looking to someone to mentor or to steer me in a direction. Mother kept talking about getting a job, going to work. A few of my friends were saying it was the end of the road, nowhere to go but get married and have a couple of kids. To them that was what we were put on earth to do.

Jessica lived up the street from my apartment. We had become friends. We were as different as chalk and cheese. Jessica liked doing grown up things. She was interested in boys; I wasn’t. Boys liked Jessica. They hung around her. She had a way with them. Jessica and I were close but never close enough for me to disclose my inner most thoughts. Jessica knew what she was going to do after high school. She had all the answers to life. Her only idea of life after high school was marriage and kids. I didn’t know what to think about that.

Jessica dated an older guy who was a Muslim. I don’t remember his name. I do remember him being physically abusive to her. She wanted to marry him. I was concerned for her safety. She accepted his behavior as okay. It was Jessica who started me thinking that marriage could also be my solution. I didn’t want Jessica to leave me behind. She was my friend. This was the only English speaking friendship I had attempted to cultivate. Jessica planted the first seeds of marriage in my mind. It was the first time in my life I had allowed myself to be a follower. It wasn’t so much the fear of losing a friend but if marriage and having kids meant I was normal, then I needed to do that. Jessica succeeded. I didn’t want to be alone. Marriage was another way of having a permanent friend after all my high school buddies were gone. It was a crutch. Jessica said we should experience marriage early, get it behind us, maybe even have a child.

Things at home were still shaky. I thought, “Marriage would get me out of this place.” Regardless of what Jessica was proposing as a way of life, I knew that my mother would never stand for me not finishing high school. I didn’t want to let her down. I refused to carry the stigma of being a dropout.

Leaving high school scared me. Mother never asked me what I wanted to do or offered any alternatives. I knew she didn’t want me to get pregnant without having completed high school.

My senior year was upon me before I knew it. The challenges of school were coming to a close. My confidence was up. Mother was still trying to deal with two kids on drugs. They were stealing whatever they could to support their habit. I was angry at both of them. I couldn’t understand, after all we had gone through, why they wanted the miserable life of a drug addict. Their self-destructive path was a dead end.

I was moving into graduation with great strides. The only person who talked with me about the future was Jessica. Perhaps I should have sought advice but my shyness held me back. I resigned myself to the fact that more schooling after high school was not in my plan. I wanted my freedom from class schedules and tests. My future was looking as though I would have to get a job to help mother support my younger siblings.

The whole idea didn’t excite me, neither did preparation for graduation. Did I go to the prom or not? That is the question that arises after all this time. There are no memories of the prom to cherish. Maybe I passed up the opportunity as unimportant so as not to put pressure on my mother to buy a prom dress.

I knew by the time I had reached my last year of high school, that college was out. I had heard my mother say there was no money.

The Voice: “Take a business course like typing, so you can get prepared to go to work.”

The voice spoke to my indecision.

Grandma Ethel finally sent my typewriter. It arrived just as I was deciding that typing would be a good subject to take. I took one semester of typing. The basic keyboard came easy. The rest was disciplining myself to build speed. That was when I realized with discipline I could teach myself things.

Jessica stayed in my life long enough to introduce me to Ferguson. She was dating his brother, Mitch. Jessica had married the Muslim and they had already broken up. I never asked her the details of what happened. One son was born out of that marriage.

I liked Ferguson right away. He was good looking, about four or five years older than I. I was sure his looks would please my mother. He had a job. He was a sharp dresser, charming and fun to be with.

I allowed my relationship with Ferguson to grow quickly. Time was running out. I had to have a husband to fill the gap of losing my high school acquaintances. He liked me and I made myself like him. What I didn’t like about his lifestyle was that he was a drinker, smoked cigarettes and dabbled in drugs. I didn’t do either. He began introducing me to his lifestyle of wine and mixed drinks. I made up my mind I was going to marry him.. Up to this point, I had not had sex. I had been around a few girls when they talked about it, but I was too scared to go that far with a boy. Hearing other girls talk about it gave me the impression that this was a natural part of life. If you didn’t indulge in it, there was something wrong with you. The idea of intercourse scared me. I had heard stories about how it hurt and that sometimes you even bled.

I had set my sights on Ferguson. I wasn’t going to let him get away. He introduced me to his mother. Her name was Martha. She enjoyed drinking and socializing with friends. Martha’s excessive drinking caused tension and arguments. I was uncomfortable in her presence when she was drinking. I began to notice behavioral changes in Ferguson and his brothers when they drank. They got loud and aggressive.

The last few days before graduation, I would play hooky sometimes to be with Ferguson. I had never done that before. We talked about getting married in a few years. I agreed with what he said. I didn’t know what I wanted. We made plans for a life together and discussed what we wanted to do in the future.

Getting out of high school was a fast trip to adult responsibility. I panicked at the thought. I wasn’t ready to assume the adult role. It frightened me. Just when I was beginning to enjoy being a kid, it was over. I wanted to be a kid a lot longer, but I was also growing curious about this sex thing that the girls my age seemed preoccupied with in their conversations.

Ferguson and his brother Truman lived together. Truman had a drinking problem which consumed him. He got into fights with Ferguson and sometimes physically abused his wife.

I was at Ferguson’s house every chance I got. I stayed close to him. I was still a virgin. Ferguson never attempted to cross the line.

When I knew I would be among the graduates, I made a decision to try sex. One evening, as we lay in each others arms, passion escalated—I voiced my fear but he promised he would be gentle. We went all the way. After it was over, questions surfaced: “Something is wrong. Are you a virgin or what? What’s wrong with you? That was too easy. No struggle. Have you done this before?” Questions flooded my mind.

( Part 18 Coming Soon)

Conversations With God Part 16

2010-11-18T16:30:00.000-08:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com/bookstore.html)

The Voice: “Now you know.”

I wasn’t willing to let anything or anyone distract me. I knew I could reach back and give them all the help they needed, but I had to continue on my journey. I failed to get through to Armstrong. That day his life changed. He started using drugs. He stole from mother. His behavior was disappointing. My hurt was such that I felt a need to confront mother about her behavior and the affect it was having on her children. She didn’t welcome my comments. Instead she responded with a slap to my face: “You whore!”

I was out of line so I decided to get back in my place and whatever happened, those were her kids.
Armstrong’s stealing was out of control. He didn’t come home anymore. Mother had enough. She put him out. He was 15. His visits were few and far between. He got more involved with the business of selling drugs. Rumor had it that he was selling drugs to kids. That information drove me to confront him. I asked him to stop selling to kids. I reminded him that one day it could be his kid. I left it up to him to stop. The rumors stopped.

We lost contact with each other. I was disappointed that he had chosen that path.
Our family was crumbling. Terry followed in Armstrong’s footsteps. I thought, “How could they be so weak, bring such shame on the family.”

I made an excuse for them. I blamed their sexual abuse for their problems. It hurt me that they were not like me, strong, and determined to beat the odds. I remained obedient to my mother. I respected her house rules, so did Vanessa, the youngest. My goal was to hurry up and grow up. I was going to show my parents that I could succeed without their nurturing and love.

The Voice: “That day you were reminded again that the responsibility for rearing the children was no longer yours.”

That day I grew to another level of awareness. I learned to hate my mother’s behavior but not her.

CHAPTER III
TAKE CONTROL OF
THE THINGS YOU CAN
The Voice: “Do you remember how you wouldn’t undress in front of girls your age? It was the most dreaded thing you faced from time to time.”

“Yeah,” I thought.

I was always trying to hide myself, afraid of exposing myself nude to females. I didn’t feel comfortable looking at other girls’ bodies. I didn’t like being touched or kissed by girls or adult females.
I can’t remember having an interest in boys. I liked them because they liked me. I accepted the boy-girl thing as normal.

The Voice: “You were haunted by this physical attraction for women but I wouldn’t allow it to take root. My word had been placed in you so that you rejected the thought and refused to conceive it.”

It was this truth that kept me. Society frowned upon same sex relationships, and I feared being singled out in public or rejected by friends and family.

The Voice: “Your sexual gender had been confused by this time but you remained faithful to what was right.”

Being interested in boys was acceptable as normal behavior. Boys always found me attractive. I knew the day would come when I would have a boyfriend. That was what girls and boys were expected to do.
David and I met in the Laundromat. He was a nice, mannerly boy. I tried to overlook his feminine gestures. He took interest in me. After we finished doing our laundry, he asked me out to the movies. I told him he would have to ask my parents.

Carlton had moved back in, so I pretended David would have to ask him. David walked me home, together Carlton and my mother consented, provided we were back by 11:00 p.m.

On the way to and from the movie David talked about his family. He was from a big family. I admired anyone from a large family. I always compared everyone’s family to mine. Other families seemed to have it together. I didn’t see my family that way. I wanted what I thought other families had. I took the positive examples of what I saw as a guide to shape my own family values.

David and I got to be best friends. We became close enough to exchange a few hugs and kisses. He lived in a different part of town so we only saw each other on the weekends. He respected my mother’s wishes. Something about being around him aroused conflicting feelings. I was puzzled. I wanted to be closer than just a few kisses, but he kept his distance.

The Voice: “You were feeling that you didn’t deserve him to treat you with respect, that he should have tried something…like the rest.”

I didn’t press the issue. Instead I came away from the relationship with a more positive image of sex. David taught me that relationships between boys and girls can be good without the pressure of sex. We dated for awhile but I grew tired of his niceness. I lost interest in David’s non-threatening treatment.

We moved into a different neighborhood, rougher people. In this area people hung out most of the night drinking and doing drugs. I met this new boy. His name was Mack. Mack’s sister lived across the street from us. He was not very good looking. My mother reminded me of that every time she saw us talking together. I told Mack about David but he didn’t care. Mack looked like he had been pumping iron. He was likeable and aggressive in pursuing me. My mother always teased me about him looking like a gorilla, and if we got married, we would have little gorillas for kids.

The possibility worried my mother. She was always concerned with how people looked and what they had to offer. She never seemed to like any of the boys who took an interest in me, and she voiced those opinions. Her critical attitude reminded me of Grandma Ethel. We differed on what value to place on relationships. To me, financial gain and relationships didn’t mix. I didn’t want to be involved with a person for material gain. They had to have qualities that I liked.

I forced myself to get more emotional about boys because that was normal. I never broke off with David. He continued to come around. Mother gave David permission to visit but not Mack. Mack and I began to sneak around to spend time with each other.

The Voice: “The multi-relationships started to evidence itself here. You didn’t see anything wrong with being involved with the two of them at the same time. To you it was harmless.”

That’s right. I had no boundaries. There was no place to end with one and begin with another. They each served a different need.

My mother had begun to make new friends. This older guy had made his way into her circle of friends. He was related to my mother’s friend, Ms. Brannon. His name was Harvey. He was ten years older. Rumor surfaced that he had his eye on me. Mother was encouraging it. I didn’t like mother’s matchmaking. She started saying things like, “He is older, more mature, and has a job.” At 16 I didn’t care about what he had. He was too old.

Because mother was so set on this guy, in order to please her, I decided to go out with him. My heart was not in it. I remembered thinking, “But please don’t make me do anything with him.”

The weekend was coming up. He wanted to take me to the movie. He was clean, but a peculiar smell of his body triggered unpleasant memories…panic. I got through the movie. The whole time I was thinking, “He should feel good about this privilege. I’m doing this for my mother. He better not try anything.”

After the movie he wanted to go to his apartment. At that point I knew I was in trouble. All kinds of things went through my head, but I couldn’t say “No.” Ugly thoughts appeared, “Had my own mother set me up?” If he tried anything, I was going to defend myself. For the next few hours at his apartment, I wrestled with him, trying to deter him from going all the way.

The Voice: “Your prayer was, ‘Lord, what shall I do? My mother sent me here. What am I supposed to do? I don’t want to do this. Help me.’ ”

Right after my prayer, I got the idea to let him relieve himself on my legs instead of penetrating me. He never asked if I had done this before. There was never any question on his part about whether I was on any type of birth control—nothing.

I left him that night feeling unclean. I blamed myself for what had happened. I couldn’t understand why this was happening. What was it about me that caused these things to happen to me? That night brought back memories of events I had tried to forget.

Hate surfaced. I suppressed my anger as long as everyone kept their distance from me, but now I found it hard to hold back. Something changed on the inside of me. I felt resentful. My own mother appeared to be against me, putting me in a position to be preyed upon. It was happening again. I hated that mother did this. I buried my hurt and disappointment.

(Check out Part 17 Right Here on This Blog)

Conversations With God Part 15

2010-11-01T09:13:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com/bookstore.html)

I was growing up, maturing. At 16 I was starting to realize that I needed to cut the umbilical cord.

The Voice: “Stop trying to place your mother on a pedestal and understand that whatever you become is up to you, not her. She is responsible for her life’s direction and how you end up is up to you.”

I remember hearing these words and I knew it was time to let go. I could no longer hold my mother accountable for what I became in life, it was up to me. I appreciated having my mother back in my life. I needed her pampering. I would find ways to have her to myself. I’d fake like I was having severe menstrual cramping during that time of the month so that she would pick me up early from school. It would be just her and I, no other kids around. She would sit and rub my stomach, place a cup of hot tea to my lips, and just hold me close.

Mother had gone through a lot of changes with Carlton. It was the incident that occurred during an Easter Holiday that left me more disturbed than anything about adults. Mother had been out all day shopping. Carlton was angry and making accusations. His attitude was showing. My baby sister, Vanessa, was washing dishes.

Carlton’s anger peaked as mother and he continued to argue. The next thing I knew he threw a glass in the sink where my sister was washing dishes. Glass splattered in the sink and onto the floor. I heard my sister say, “Man, that glass almost got in my eye.” Rage began to rise on the inside of me. I said, “You’d better be glad that she didn’t get hurt.” He came to my face, “What would you do?”

He had crossed the line. I jumped on him. I was no match for him. He was over six-feet tall and I was five feet two inches. I didn’t care. I had prepared myself to die for what I perceived as harm to my baby sister. We wrestled together on the floor. He put his hands around my neck and began choking me. I was gasping for air.

My mother tried to get him off me but he didn’t budge. She grabbed the scissors she had been using to hem our dresses for that upcoming Easter Sunday and began stabbing him. All that mattered to me was that he was not going to hurt my sister. When he realized he was bleeding he stopped and bolted out of the house.

The holiday had turned into one of turmoil. The kids were crying. Mother wanted to know was I all right. I couldn’t bring myself to cry. He was gone and I felt relieved.

He made it to the hospital. Word came that if mother had hit him one more time he would have been dead. I figured it was all over for the two of them, but a few days after his release from the hospital, he came back to live with us. He tried to apologize but I wouldn’t accept. I’d had enough. I wasn’t going to take his rough ways with my younger siblings. I vowed in my heart if there was ever another confrontation with him that I would kill him.

It began to look more and more like my dad was out of the picture. My mother needed a life other than just her kids. The past didn’t seem to matter to her. I decided that if I was going to survive the rest of my journey I needed to let go, stop feeling sorry for myself and move on.

My concern turned to my younger siblings. I attempted to get them to adopt that way of thinking but they were too dependent on mother. I couldn’t control what they did. Letting go gave me peace.

Everything was okay for me but not my brother. It was one of those times when Carlton was in and out of mother’s life, more out than in. She was seeing other men. One afternoon I found Armstrong leaning next to mother’s room door, tears running down his face. Mother was in there with a gentleman friend. By the time I got to him I didn’t hear anything unusual but something had disturbed him.

The Voice: “You shared your decision to let her live her life and that you were going to move on, but he didn’t want to hear it.”

Yeah, I remember that day. I saw he was not going to move. The motherly urge came over me. I moved in closer, pulled him into my arms to comfort him. I recall whispering in his ear, “It’s okay.” I tried to resist mothering him because I had let go, released the kids back to their mother. But I found myself out of a child’s role and assuming a mother’s protective nature for her hurting child. I thought that part of my life was behind me but it had surfaced again.

(Come back for Part 16)

Conversations With God Part 14

2010-11-01T09:05:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com/bookstore.html)

The Voice: “You were afraid to open yourself up because of the dual personality you sensed within you.”

I didn’t want to have anything to do with the Bible. I wouldn’t surrender myself; I held back. I thought the scriptures were talking to me. I was afraid I was losing control, the way the movies portrayed spiritual things.
I remember saying, “I don’t want this.” I stopped pursuing after God.

By the time I reached the 10th grade I had begun to blossom. I made some decisions about where I wanted to end up. I liked what I was becoming. I felt good about myself. I knew I needed to step out of the comfort of my past achievements and look for new challenges.

I learned to focus on my abilities and not my liabilities. I was tough on myself. I believed I had to be the best that I could be in any situation. I began to act and believe that I was created special. I was hungry to explore this new world of self-direction and independence.

Strolling through the schoolyard one afternoon, I came upon several girls having a baton twirling practice. I stood there and watched them work their routine. I was spellbound by their uniformity. At the same time as I completed reading the sign behind them that read “tryouts,” my reading was interrupted.

The Voice: “You have proven yourself academically, now it’s time to prove your physical accomplishment.”

I thought, “I can do that.” Prior to this, I had never done anything physical. As I stood watching the batons being twirled and thrown up in the air, a girl’s voice spoke: “Do you want to sign up for tryouts?” Before I could respond she handed me a piece of paper to write my name.

I was excited. I couldn’t wait to get home to tell my mother. By the time I reached home it was more than just a want to, it was a burn on the inside of me. I knew I could make the team. I just needed my mother’s okay and the rest would be up to me.

I went straight to my mother’s room. “Mom, guess what, I signed up for the twirlers today. The tryouts are coming up in a couple of weeks. I need...” My mother interrupted me. “Where do you think I’m going to get the money for that?” I didn’t hear her words of disapproval, I was already on the team. I questioned why she responded this way to my excitement but I chose to ignore it. My determination rose.

The Voice: “If you persist she will know that you are serious.”

Yes, that voice again, guiding me. I thought my mother would be happy about my getting involved with anything that was positive, but money was always an issue. I didn’t care about her money problems. Money was an obstacle for me. I wanted to be on the team, to be out there representing the positive side of my family. It was my way of saying to other people that I was okay and that I had reached another accomplishment.

I baby-sat my uncle’s kids so I could buy a baton to practice. I made enough to buy a cheap model but it didn’t matter; I used what I had.

I watched the girls practice everyday. I learned a little more each day as I watched. At home I could be found in front of our apartment building imitating the routine I had observed at school that day.

The big day came. My weeks of practice and determination had paid off. As I stepped up to do my routine I knew I couldn’t miss. I made it. It felt good. Achievement was a sign of improvement and growth. The accolades of others didn’t mean as much as the feeling of accomplishment.

I made the team. For some it was a historical advancement and a celebration. In the history of the school there had never been a girl of color on the twirler team—I was reminded—but it didn’t concern me. I set the goal, did the work, and made it happen. My color never entered into my ability to win.

The tryouts were over and now it was time to settle in with the team in practice sessions. At the first practice I realized what I had taught myself was an incorrect way of handling the baton but the coaches straightened me out.

My world opened up to cultures I hadn’t been able to befriend. The captains of the team Beth and Joanie were both Jewish. They were beautiful. I liked both of them instantly. Unity and team spirit were their focus. I felt welcomed under their leadership.

I had made up my mind that nothing was going to slow me down or stop me, not even the money my mother said she didn’t have for my uniform and boots. My uncle continued letting me baby-sit on the weekends. I gave up my weekends. I saved the money visiting relatives gave me, and I looked for ways to earn more money doing extra chores. I was unstoppable. I practiced, did whatever I needed and believed that I would have what I needed when the time came.

I had no idea how much I saved and how much my mother contributed, but one of the girls was graduating and had an extra uniform. We were the same size. I ended up with her slightly used uniform and my mother bought me a pair of brand new boots. Where did the money come from? I don’t know but it came.

My mother joined in to help me achieve my dream. That was a big ego boost. My confidence level rose. She taught me that when you want something bad enough, people who oppose you will join you when they see your determination to win.

Sometimes during the practice sessions I would end up sitting alone. It didn’t bother me because I didn’t feel comfortable talking to the other girls. I was shy so I thought it was okay if the girls didn’t talk with me during the breaks.

However, this particular day as everyone moved over into groups, I was content to sit alone until one of the captains made a statement, “Why is Ashley alone? We are a team. I don’t want to see her sitting alone.”

I was embarrassed. I had thought nothing of their actions, just that we had nothing in common. Plus I didn’t want the girls to get too close. I feared them asking questions about my past. I was enjoying things the way they were. I couldn’t understand why I was being singled out. I had earned the right to be on the team. I brushed it off. It didn’t phase me that my color played a part in why the girls were staying to themselves.

I was naive to racial prejudices. It had no place in where I wanted to go. If I could see them today I would say “thank you,” because their defense of me in a spirit of equality touched me.

Puzzled by the situation, when I arrived home I told my mother what had happened. That day I learned that people are people and that other people help you grow even in what appears to be a negative situation. I also learned that I didn’t have the color hang-ups that others had. My goal has always been to strive to be a better person.

I remembered none of the details of the football games. To this day I don’t like or understand the game. What I do recall is half time, marching proud, head held high for my mom and others to see. I wanted to let my mother know that I was thankful for her rescuing me when she did. I had come through another test.

Read Part 15

Conversations With God Part 13

2010-10-21T08:47:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com bookstore)

The Voice: “Study more words at home. Use your dictionary. That is a good source. Make it a part of your daily study habits and you will know more.”

I didn’t have a dictionary at home.Those words confirmed my direction. I became obsessed with knowing the meanings of words. I wanted to rid myself of any and all shortcomings that were within my control.

The Reader’s Digest got to be a part of my library. I don’t remember my mother ever subscribing to the Reader’s Digest. Maybe someone gave it to her, handed it down to her. It didn’t matter to me whether it was a past or current issue, it satisfied my hunger for knowledge. It contained not only a list of words to enhance my vocabulary, but there were tips on living, laughter, social do’s and don’t’s. You even had the benefit of other people’s stories and their experiences.

The Reader’s Digest became like my life’s guide. I associated it with a book for intelligent people; people on the up and up. That’s where I wanted to go. I dreamed of growing up and writing a story under the Reader’s Digest “Life in These United States,” but I never did. My hope at that time was to be able to make the money they offered for those stories to help my mother pay bills.

That summer of focusing on reading impacted my life. I don’t remember my summer reading teacher’s name but she said, “reading must become a habit. If you don’t do that habit every day, you lose it.” I practiced everyday. Reading became my escape from reality. Reading about other people overcoming insurmountable odds gave me hope that I could get through whatever was going on in my life. Books taught me that I, too, could become an achiever in spite of where I had come from.

Secretly, I wondered whether I could ever achieve the greatness of the writers’ works I read, or would I ever have anything to write about.

My enrollment in the school drama class was an attempt to overcome my shyness. It was a shortcoming I wanted to be rid of. It was uncomfortable and short-lived. My biggest fear in drama was getting stuck in a character.

The Voice: “You didn’t want them to find out about your memory problem. You had to remember lines. Playing other characters threatened you.”

I didn’t pursue drama for those reasons. You’re right.

The words of Grandma Ethel continued to echo in my mind: “If you don’t go to church you are sinning. Bad things are going happen to you for not serving God.” My mother didn’t attend church regularly or pressure us to attend, though she encouraged us to go to Sunday School.

Grandma Ethel had forced me into baptism, but I didn’t know anymore about God. He was still a mystery to me. I felt that He had forsaken me. I wanted to forget about God but I couldn’t let go of the hope he represented. I felt pretty sure he had a place but for now, no sense in a kid getting all caught up in confusion.

Keeping in mind what Grandma Ethel said, when the summer came around again, I joined some of the neighborhood children in vacation Bible study at the corner church. It had been a long time since I read or had anything to do with the Bible. Grandma Ethel was responsible for that.

The scriptures were meaning something to me again but I was still at a lost as to how to apply them, or what to do with the information as its meaning revealed itself.

Continue with Part 14

Conversations With God Part 12

2010-10-21T08:41:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com bookstore)

The Voice: “You are somebody because God made you special; and you are as good as he is.”

If there was ever any doubt in my mind as to who I was and what I could do, those words took it away. Sometimes things at home attempted to make me feel undeserving but I rejected those thoughts. By the time the semester ended I had been nominated in second place to receive the science medal of achievement. I was the only female, so it was rumored, who had ever won this award, not to mention, of ethnic background.

It was another milestone in my effort to be the person I knew I was created to be. I had proven myself academically. The victory for me was not only the ability to win, but that there was nothing wrong with me. What a relief; because my lack of memory of the past sure bugged me.

My report card came home with praises from my science teacher. He wrote, “Send me a whole classroom full of Ashley Johnsons.” I was on a cloud. As good as I was feeling about my successes, my mother’s joy and acceptance was important, but she gave little praise. I wanted to hear her say how proud she was of me. My mother’s approval was the prize I needed that day. She didn’t jump up and down with joy.

The Voice: “Don’t let it bother you. Keep on pushing. So what, you don’t feel that she is supporting you. Are you going to let it stop you, keep you from achieving? Sometimes you may have to be the lone rider, feel like nobody is with you but you have to keep on.”

The impact of those words today is the same as the very day that I heard them. You were always there to give me that extra kick in the pants I needed to go on. I stopped trying to please my mother. It shouldn’t matter what others thought of my successes, as long as I knew who I was doing it for. Other than my mother, my successes were always a validation check. I was discovering myself, testing my brain capacity, learning to rise above the memory handicap I suspected I had.

The Voice: “There are other things to know about life and people. It’s time to read more. Books can teach you a lot of things. You can experience life through characters in books.”

I was thinking how I had mastered some things and began looking at where I could go from there. I had proven I was normal in comparison to other kids my age. I was hungry for knowledge. Reading opened up a whole new world to me. I wanted to read everything, to know everything.

I soon discovered the teaching ability of books, everything from social graces, table manners and how to talk to people. I wanted to be a well-rounded person. As a result of my vocabulary being inadequate, I was shy and uncomfortable talking to my peers. Sometimes kids my age used words I didn’t know.

I’d put my embarrassment aside and ask them what it meant. They’d tell me the meaning, then I would go home and look it up just in case they were leading me on. I didn’t care how it looked to them. I knew if I didn’t ask questions I couldn’t learn. Once I looked it up in the dictionary, I began to practice using the word. Some kids would throw out a word in order to appear intelligent or to impress. I was curious about why they did that.

My English Teacher cleared it up one day without me asking the question. The subject of Mr. Hardwick’s lesson this particular day was a speaker’s improper usage of words in expressing his thoughts. He said if the one being spoken to wonders what is meant by the use of a word, then the speaker has failed to effectively communicate.

From that day on, I learned the meaning of words because I wanted to become an effective communicator. I was no longer impressed by the use of words that didn’t define themselves in the context in which they were used.

That day I learned: A good speaker is one who can make himself understood by the least educated and the most educated. My desire to communicate led to the discovery of the vocabulary building section in the Reader’s Digest.

(Read on at Chapter 13)

Conversations With God Part 11

2010-09-01T09:54:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonmentat www.print2publish.com bookstore)

I was afraid of anyone uncovering the truth of my past. I had to stay strong. I wasn’t going to break. No one was going to probe my mind. I would accept no excuses for failing nor allow anyone to doom me to failure. I was fighting my fight to win, to grow up normal. I wanted to prove that I could come through all of this and have a productive life.

CHAPTER II
SET ONE SHORT RANGE
GOAL AT A TIME

I was learning that no matter what came against me I could choose how I was going to handle it. All of my life this voice surfaced whenever it was needed. Fear of criticism silenced me from telling anyone. I thought my family would say I was crazy and have me committed. This voice guide prevented me from doing bad things to others. Sometimes when the other voices would try to influence me to do bad things, it would override them.

Though I had this voice guiding me, it was clear, the choice of which way to go was up to me. I could cop out or go on. There would be no one to blame. It was my decision.

I stopped focusing on the things I couldn’t control and directed my attention to academic performance. New York schools brought a lot more kids to deal with on a daily basis then I had been used to. I went to Junior High School 190. I liked school and the atmosphere of learning. I was eager to get into school. I felt that I had missed out on something in the earlier years of schooling because I didn’t remember much. My teachers liked me. I was receiving a lot more praise. School became a place where I could test how I compared against other students whom I thought had the perfect family life, had it all together—smart. Excelling academically meant that I was as good as the next person and that my past was unimportant.

Poor behavior and substandard grades were not acceptable to my mother. She didn’t have to reiterate it. I did what would please her. I figured if my behavior was good and my conduct was intact that she wouldn’t have to look any deeper to see what was going on, and she didn’t. I was a model student. The other children always seemed to be her focus.

I still had a lot to master about myself. The question of my identity began surfacing. I thought less about who I was and more about who I could become. I felt pretty good about my academic performance. I was recognized with the best of students.

Since my arrival, I had become friendly with some kids from Puerto Rico. We were neighbors. They lived in my apartment building. I had no exposure to other cultures until I moved to Brooklyn. We hit it off right away. They wanted to learn English. I wanted to learn Spanish. I caught on fast. So much so, that I wanted to study the language in depth, really get involved.

My decision to study Spanish in the coming fall term was met by a challenge. Upon further inquiry of my counselor, I found out that my reading level wasn’t high enough to take the class; I was reading two grade levels behind. Determined not to let that stop me, I enrolled in summer school. There was no way I was going to let anyone find out that I couldn’t achieve because I had a reading deficiency. Knowing Spanish would let me fit somewhere and would provide me with an identity outlet. I would be unique, an American who spoke another language.

With the summer reading class my problem was solved, but my records were lost. I was disappointed but somehow I knew in my heart that it would be worked out. There was a rumor circulating that I hadn’t shown up to class, that my name had been confused with someone else. Just when it looked as if that summer had been a waste, the mailman brought my report card, which showed that I had passed in excellent standing. The school never located the original but they accepted the report that had been mailed.

I returned to school in the fall excited about my summer school accomplishment and about being able to converse more with my new friends in their language. My Spanish teacher was amazed at the vigor and enthusiasm I approached the subject. My head was filled with great possibilities. My teachers thought I had a natural talent for the language.

Not only was I speaking it fluently, I was writing and reading it on the same level of understanding as the Spanish students. Some of my peers began to think I was Spanish. I was comfortable with my new found friends and family. We loved each other. This was the beginning of a new adventure. I wanted to learn everything about the Spanish culture, the dances, music; I ate the foods. This was my ticket. My plan was to become an interpreter to the United Nations. I had big dreams.

Then the word came which jolted me back to reality. I wasn’t going to be given a scholarship because I wasn’t Spanish. I hadn’t checked things out and my guidance counselor didn’t volunteer any information.

It didn’t take long for me to regroup. My confidence level was up. I had made a great stride. It was time to move on. I spent the balance of the semester focusing on other academic studies. It was time to compete with other students to see how normal I was and how I measured up.

During the course of arriving in New York and attending school, I heard that Jewish kids were smart, and that they were always winners. I thought if I could match wits with one of them, that would be my ultimate test of “being normal”. Prior to this I didn’t have to apply much effort to crank out A’s and B’s, but now I found myself developing study habits.

Science became my next focus. It fascinated me. I looked for kids in my science class I could compete with. The smartest kid in my class was Mark. He represented all that I had heard about Jewish students. I jumped in. As I got more involved in my science studies, Mark started to notice me. My studying paid off. I was being recognized right along with him. Science seemed to come natural for him. I knew nothing about his family life. I was sure he had a better family life than mine, but I wasn’t going to use my home situation as an excuse not to excel.

Continues with Part 12

Conversations With God Part 10

2010-09-01T09:46:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book There in the Midst the Mysterious Exposed at www.print2publish.com bookstore)

Before we knew it, another summer was upon us. The school year was over. The church around the corner offered summer camp activities to keep the young people off the street and out of trouble. We all decided to enroll. A week before it started a rumor surfaced about my dad being a no good jailbird. I got mad. I never talked about my dad to anyone, but I sure wasn’t going to sit back and let anyone slander his name.

By the time we entered camp I had hoped that it was over, that the talk was finish. To my displeasure, about a week into camp activity it surfaced. One of the girls named Denise told me that Shimaya said it and that I should kick her butt.

That meant I would have to fight her or they would pick on me from then on. I told Shimaya, “I will kick your butt.” We started arguing in the church. The Camp Director told us, “Take it outside.”

The gang members looked on outside as I positioned my body to fight Shimaya. Her hands flailed in the air. I struck with closed fist. She swung at me with an open palm. She never touched me. After the fight started I knew that I could beat her, that she couldn’t win. I didn’t want to hurt her but I had to make it look good to satisfy the gang. Shimaya gave up. I won. At that point I turned to look each of the gang members in the face and challenged any of them to step forward. But no one took me on. They went on about their business, leaving Shimaya and I alone. I apologized to her and we parted as friends.

Word would travel fast. I had to get upstairs and tell my mother before anyone else did. I didn’t know what I was going to tell my mother. By the time I got upstairs—I couldn’t stop crying. I apologized to my mother for fighting in the street, disgracing the family with my behavior.

I learned a few lessons that day. I would never allow anyone to bring me down to that level again. I did gain the satisfaction of knowing that I could defend myself if I needed to. Those girls had been known to carry a weapon or two, mainly knives.

The Voice: “Had you fought one of the girls you went to school with daily and they lost—”

“I see.”

It might have been a different outcome. Shimaya took it well. I knew there was another force operating with me that day.

The fight brought respect from the group. It stopped the rumors and there were no further challenges or threats. I had won them over. My confidence went up. I felt good about the outcome. Everybody got what they wanted, and Shimaya and I became friends.

I had my mother to myself for a little while, until I noticed this gentleman friend of hers hanging around. His name was Carlton. He was about six-foot tall, medium build, smooth dark skin, and black curly hair. He liked to drink, dance, and have fun. He spent a lot of time at our house. On first meeting I was jealous; I didn’t want him to take my dad’s place. I hoped since we had been separated so long from our mother that we would be enough for her. We had a lot of time to make up; I was wrong; we were not enough. I wanted my father and mother back together. I could see that Carlton was getting closer. The possibility of mom and dad reuniting seemed slim.

One morning I woke up, he had moved in. My mother didn’t ask me what I thought, whether I agreed; she just did it. After what had happened with us, I thought she would be careful who she had around us, but it didn’t seem to bother her. None of the other children seemed to mind his presence. Terry took to him right away; I felt betrayed. Terry was so comfortable with him she walked around in her panties in front of him. My efforts to tell her that this was not a good idea were in vain, so I stopped trying and just sat back and watched.

My suspicions were confirmed. One night, as I lay in between my two sisters, I heard footsteps coming toward our bedroom. The light was on. It was Carlton. I didn’t know what to do. I pretended to be asleep. He was standing over our bed. My gown had come up over my hips. I was scared. I didn’t have time to pull it down. I dared not move. He reached into a small tear in my underwear to fondle me. Simultaneously, I heard my mother ask what he was doing. I breathed a sigh of relief, “She’s awake.”

His reply, “Just covering the girls up.”

My new beginning was shattered. I thought my mother would protect me. Questions flooded my mind, “What did I do to deserve this, to cause him to single me out? I’m no good. I deserve it.”

I felt guilty about what he had done.

The Voice: “Forget about it. Get over it. You can’t do anything about it now. You’ll get through it.”

Soothed by those words, I settled into sleep, with the hope that I would overcome this and there was a future. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my mother right away. Ironically, I told Aunt Michelle first and she advised me to talk to my mother. Her advice confused me. I pondered her face. The thought surfaced, “Could I have been wrong? Was she and Uncle Josh doing those things back then? How could she be guilty when she suggested that I tell my mother. She’s acting so normal, like nothing ever happened.”

My mother’s reaction to my accusation against Carlton shocked me. It was the same: overlook it, pretend it didn’t happen. I was crushed. At this point I didn’t like her. I was disappointed. She also had two faces. What went through my mind was, the whole family was trying to make me crazy. I was not going to risk being pushed out of control. Through self-talk I pulled myself together: “Can’t let them drive me crazy. This is a dream. It’s not happening. There’s something wrong with these people. Am I important to anyone? They will pay for this. I will not allow them to destroy my life.”

Burying the hurts got easier. I vowed I would never set myself up to be disappointed by family or outsiders again. I had waited so long for my mother’s hugs and kisses. I felt betrayed. I wanted to sever every feeling inside of me that made me vulnerable to hurt. I tried to hate my mother over and over again but I couldn’t; instead, I denied her motherly shortcomings. I wanted a supportive, nurturing family.

It was at that point that I began to create the ideal mother image. I told my friends and acquaintances how protective and supportive my mother was. How she loved and encouraged me to be the best. It was nobody’s business what went on in our house. I didn’t want or need pity. I was going to achieve in spite of all of this. I would prove my worth for all eyes to see.

(To be continued in Conversations With God Part 11)

Conversations With God Part 9

2010-08-17T12:48:00.001-07:00

(Excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com)

Not too long after we arrived, Aunt Michelle came to live with us. When I saw her I thought that it was cruel for her to invade our new beginning. I was hoping my mother would never have anything to do with her again. It was her sister, so that was unrealistic. My mother never talked to me about her coming to live with us so I kept a silent and watchful eye on her. I wondered had my mother talked to her. I dared not ask. Instead, she acted so normal that I begin to doubt what I saw. I questioned whether I dreamed it all up. I hoped that her visit was a bad dream and that she would be gone soon. Aunt Michelle’s stay in our house was brief; she moved out on her own.

It wasn’t long after our arrival in Brooklyn that I started meeting kids my own age. I was apprehensive about them getting too close. I didn’t want them to know I came from a broken home. I had never heard kids talking together, sharing childhood stories with each other. I didn’t know how to talk about kid things. I was learning what a child’s life was like. Sometimes they would ask me about my childhood, things I use to do, and I couldn’t answer them. I soon realized that every child had a past and I needed one, too. It was part of being normal. So I made up stories about how much my Grandma Maggie and Grandpa Johnson loved me, how they spoiled me with things. I told them about my loving father.

Summer ended and school began. My first day of school was rough. My mother walked me to school. There were a lot of kids to interact with. I was nervous about so many kids around me at one time. I procrastinated about getting dressed each morning. My mother grew annoyed with me. I sensed that she was about to leave me to go on my own sooner than I was ready to. Her last effort was to introduce me to this group of girls who lived on the corner. She noticed them going in the same direction to school. They agreed to let me join them on their walk to school in the mornings. Shortly after joining them I found out they smoked cigarettes, pot, and drank wine. They hung around with the roughest boy gang in the neighborhood. I suspected that one or two of them were having sex.

I never let on to my mother as to what was going on. I continued going to school with them. I knew my mother didn’t put me with them to do these things so I didn’t. Besides, I was afraid if I did those things I would be sent away again. I didn’t want to risk losing the good feeling of having a mother around. She had enough to worry about; I didn’t want to add to it.

The girls sometimes called me square but they never attempted to challenge me. I was not easy to read. I looked mean all the time; I didn’t smile much; I was quiet. They left me alone.

We got through the school year without a fight among us. I could tell that this wasn’t going to last. This girl named Shimaya had gotten pretty friendly with us over the course of the school year. She was overweight and wanted to be accepted. Her family was a little better off than most in our neighborhood so the girls didn’t like her because they felt she was a bit too uppity. Shimaya didn’t help the situation because she bragged a lot about what she had and how much she paid for it.

Be on the lookout for Conversations With God Part 10

Conversations With God Part 8

2010-08-17T12:37:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment www.print2publish.com)

The Voice: “They’re with their mother. That is their mother. You are not their mother. You only looked after them for her. Now, give them back to their mother. You no longer are responsible for them.”

I was feeling all I had done for them was not important anymore, that they had abandoned me. After I heard these words I let go and tried to settle back into a child’s place. A week or two passed. I was still working my way back into being a child and realized that I had forgotten how to be carefree.

I maintained a watchful eye over the kids, even though they were with their mother. I wanted to feel safe. I loved having my mother there to talk to, to sit by, to put a loving hand on me. I never wanted to leave her. I was experiencing the security of having a mother around.

I wanted to open up to her but I held back. She seemed like such a good mother. Surely she would want to know what happened with her children. I caught her alone one afternoon while the other children were downstairs playing. I told her about Aunt Michelle having my younger siblings perform oral sex on her in the outhouse. I tried to read her face. I proceeded to tell her about Uncle Josh bouncing my baby sister up and down on his lap taking sexual pleasure.

She stopped me, hushed me. I could tell that she didn’t know what to do. She told me to forget about it. She said, “It’s all over now. I’ve got you. You’re here.”

I stared in her eyes. I was hurt. This wasn’t enough for me. I wanted her to take revenge, to get angry, go after them, expose them. When she didn’t talk in that direction, I grew angry. My mind flooded with bitterness, “She doesn’t love me either. I thought she did. She is supposed to be my mother. She doesn’t care what happens to us. Don’t trust her.”
All the air had been let out of my balloon. I felt low, worthless.

The Voice: “Ashley, you know what to do. Forget about her. You have not been able to count on your family. Put it behind you and move on. One day the story will be told.”
Those words lifted me up. I had to go the distance. My confidence surfaced. I had to take responsibility for my own life, at least the things I could control. That day I took another vow, never to be taken advantage of again or allow any harm to come to my younger siblings. I was bigger now and not as helpless.

We arrived in Brooklyn at the beginning of summer. I liked Brooklyn. We had all summer to get to know the area and the people, our neighbors. I had never seen apartment buildings so high up off the ground. I was fascinated by all the street signs and the activity of the Brooklyn streets.

My first memory of my age was after moving to New York. I was 12. It seems that’s when my life began to have real meaning. My two sisters and I shared a room. We slept in the same bed. I was feeling a bit caged and cramped with this arrangement but I didn’t complain.

My nights were restless. It was hard to sleep in a way that I didn’t come in contact with either sister’s breath in my face. I would wake up in a panic attack, ordering them to change positions or turn away from me. I was afraid of the dark so my mother accommodated me sometimes with leaving a little light on in the room. I slept fully clothed most of the time. I didn’t like any part of my body to be exposed.

Click in later to read Part 9.

Conversations With God Part 7

2010-08-03T19:09:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment
at www.print2publish.com)

The Voice: “Don’t do that.”

I was so angry and determined I didn’t want to stop. I proceeded to cut off a part of the foot. My goal was the whole foot, to cripple her. I let go of the mother and began to cry. As I put her down I could see that she could still function with her foot half chopped away; I was relieved.

The Voice: “That day you were crying out for help. You wanted to destroy the mother of those baby ducks because you had no mother and you didn’t want them to have a mother.”

It’s true; I lashed out at the mother duck. I didn’t want to hurt her but I felt deserted. I was hurting. I blamed my parents for not making sure that we were safe. I didn’t want to be a mother. Why couldn’t my mother take care of her own children? My younger siblings had no one else, so I had no choice, being the oldest.

Our food supply was running low. Daddy hadn’t mentioned replacing it. Instead, on this particular afternoon I heard a car pull up. I looked out the window to see a lady and a couple of kids in the back seat of daddy’s car. Something in the pit of my stomach told me that it wasn’t good news. The lady stayed in the car with the kids.

As I watched him approach the house I didn’t know what to make of it. He sat me down and told me he was leaving for Baltimore, Maryland. I didn’t comment. He said when he got settled he would be back for us. I never questioned him about who those people were in his car and why he was taking them and not us. He didn’t mention any instructions as to how we were to eat, sleep, or survive while he was gone.

I didn’t say anything. I heard him out. He was leaving me in the house to care for three small kids with a sack of potatoes. He left no money to shop for groceries, just a kiss “goodbye” and off he went. I tried to hide it for a few days, but Grandma Ethel found out. Daddy never asked me not to tell. I didn’t want to go back to Grandma Ethel’s place.

Now, this would really be fuel to add to the fire of hatred she already held for him. I really felt thrown away by daddy. I had learned to get control of weak emotions quickly and move on, but with each hurt I grew numb inside. In a way I was glad Grandma Ethel came to our rescue because I was worried about how I was going to feed the children. I didn’t want to be a mother.

Nothing had changed with Grandma Ethel. She talked about my father abandoning us in the house with nothing to eat. She made it clear she didn’t want us back at her house but there was no one else to take us. Daddy never came back. We never saw him again. It hurt to know daddy didn’t love us enough to see to our well being. I could never figure out why daddy did this but I decided that I wouldn’t allow his lack of concern to destroy me. I wasn’t going to waste my energy loving him.

Our stay with Grandma Ethel was a short one. My mother sent for us to come to live with her in Brooklyn, New York. She was tired of Grandma Ethel complaining about us. I didn’t care what her reasons were, I wanted to leave that hellhole and never go back. Grandma Ethel packed all of our things, except my typewriter. That wasn’t going on this trip. I didn’t put up a fuss. I knew one day it would be returned to me.

I suppressed my excitement because I didn’t want to be disappointed again. I boarded the bus with apprehension and fear of meeting new people in a strange place, but I looked forward to a new beginning. I was leaving old hurt memories behind, locked away, never to be confronted again.

I was glad to see my mother but reluctant to show. I didn’t want to be separated from her again. I took it one day at a time. I didn’t know her. There was no mother-daughter bond between us. It would take time to trust her. I couldn’t wait to sit down face to face and tell her all that had happened.

It took me awhile to adjust to having a mother, to hear myself call her mom. My younger sisters and brother settled right in. I was jealous as to how quickly they got comfortable. It was taking me longer.

Continues in Part 8

Conversations With God Part 6

2010-07-29T15:22:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment
at www.print2publish.com book store)

The Voice: “I will.”

Those words were the response to my question. At the time I felt like giving up. I was trapped and hopeless but I kew I had to get through it. I hated Grandma Ethel. I felt sorry for my siblings who were being used for sexual pleasure.

Daddy and I wrote each other often. In one of his writings the subject of buying a gift came up. I’m not sure whether I asked him or he asked me. I couldn’t decide what I wanted. I hadn’t received many gifts, so I was excited and a bit boastful.

I asked Aunt Viola, “What should I ask for?”

Why I let her select the gift, I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to get on her good side. She picked a typewriter because she was taking typing in school and needed one to practice on at home. I had no idea what a typewriter was. Daddy didn’t question my request. The typewriter arrived soon after my letter was mailed. When the gift came, I never got to touch it. Aunt Viola took it over. I tried not to let it bother me.

While staying at Aunt Bernadette’s house, I noticed what seemed to me like I was looking out at the world through a window. Observing, but not really an active participant. Just going through the motions of walking my way through my space. My spirit had been dampened. I became more submissive, withdrawn. All I could think about was when I grow up this would be over, and no one would ever harm me again.

Freezing hurt feelings of rejection became a habit, especially when a situation was out of my control. I functioned in a disconnected state. I was physically in the presence of others but mentally I was elsewhere. I pumped myself with self-talk about how I didn’t need anybody, I would get through this, that I was different. I lived in fear of being found out. I had to keep myself under control. I had no idea what I was afraid for people to know. I covered up anything that would cause others to focus on my behavior or question my sanity.

Out of the four grandchildren, I was the one chosen to be baptized. Grandma Ethel insisted that I was evil, had the devil in me, is the way it was expressed. I was distrusting of her motives. I thought she and the preacher were plotting to harm me.

I prayed but God didn’t answer my prayers. Why wasn’t God answering my prayers? Was I really so bad, as my grandmother had so often told me? I kept talking to God, asking him when he was going to rescue me from all of this, but nothing, no satisfaction. As I tried to reason it out in my mind that God had given up on me, I heard—

The Voice: “God loves you and he does have a plan for your life.”

I hung on to the hope that there was a God somewhere. That I had to hold on until I reached him or he found me.
I often talked out loud to God. That was my way of staying sane, communicating with him. People told me that you could talk to God, so I just continued to have conversations with him. I figured maybe one day he would answer. If I kept seeking and proved myself worthy, he might have mercy on me and come to dwell in my life.

Just when I thought I was out of danger, an older cousin on Grandma Ethel’s side of the family cornered me in the indoor gymnasium at school and attempted to have sex with me. It was dark. I fought him off and ran outside into the open. I couldn’t help feeling like I deserved this. On the other hand, I questioned why he would want to do this to his relative. I was beginning to feel that I had to be on guard with adults as well as other children. I didn’t feel safe.

I missed having a mother and father. I wanted to be part of a complete family unit. I had given up on dad when he showed up out of nowhere, no warning, and announced he wanted to raise us. I had mixed feelings about him. Part of me wanted to shout for joy and believe that it was going to be forever. The other part wanted to stick my tongue out at Grandma Ethel and say, “See, I told you he loved us,” but I dared not.He had been gone so long from my life I didn’t know him. After all, he had left us before, so how could I think that he might have changed. My instincts were telling me to wait and see, not to get my hopes up.

Grandma Ethel watched me like a hawk. She hinted that I “better not” tell daddy a bunch of lies on her. I couldn’t wait to tell him what she had been doing and how she treated us, but I held back. He didn’t seem interested in how we had been getting along. He moved us back into the house he and my mother lived in before they separated. That house scared me. I remember nothing of it, except that it was spooky. I wanted a safe place.

I hoped daddy was going to keep his word to Grandma Ethel. I could see she was reluctant. I didn’t care whether we had a mother. I had been the mother before, and I could do it again. Daddy was in and out. I assumed the mother role once again. I never knew where he was most of the time. I did the best I knew how for my younger siblings. We were being left alone too often, but my father was an adult, how could I tell him what to do. I didn’t complain or say anything to anyone on the outside.

I would do anything to keep from going back to Grandma Ethel’s place. Daddy never talked to me about what he was planning to do with us. I didn’t question him. I silently watched him come and go.

One day as I stood on the back porch of the house watching a mother duck playing with her ducklings, running about, happy, a feeling came over me to kill the mother. I went and got the hatchet, grabbed the mother up, drew back and just as I was about to connect, I heard—

Continue in Part 7

Conversations With God Part 5

2010-07-21T15:24:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com bookstore)

The Voice: “You heard my voice and obeyed it.”

There was little or no contact with my mother or father. The relationship between Grandma Ethel and I continued to deteriorate. I couldn’t understand why I was not able to live up to her expectations.

Jonathan was Grandma Ethel’s baby boy. He was a few weeks older than I. He was never chastised or punished for the wrongs that we committed together as kids. I didn’t think it was fair. I wanted to get even so I talked my brother into helping me. This particular day we coaxed Jonathan into climbing up into a willow tree in the yard. Once he got to the top we planted a rake with the teeth face up at the base of the tree and covered it over with grass. We then threw rocks at Jonathan until he got angry enough to come after us. When he jumped down the teeth stuck in his feet. My brother and I got whipped, but we got revenge.

Grandma Ethel figured out that I was probably the one who led my brother into doing it. She wanted me out of her house because she thought I was evil. Grandma Ethel told mother that I was uncontrollable, had a problem, and needed a psychiatrist.

I looked for my mom or dad to rescue me but they didn’t. Instead my mother called my uncle’s wife, Bernadette, and talked to her about taking me to live with them. They lived next door. It was a dream come true.

Uncle Cecil and Aunt Bernadette were nice people. They had three kids. The oldest had leukemia and was always under the doctors’ care. My uncle worked as a merchant seaman. He wasn’t home that often. My aunt welcomed me as a part of her family and treated me well. I tried to please her by being as helpful as possible around the house.

She won my confidence. I opened up to her. I told her some of the things that were going on at Grandma Ethel’s house. There were more modern comforts at her house. She had color T.V., new furnishings. My first positive impression of motherhood came through watching her with her kids. I envied my cousins because they had their mother. During that time I felt no one really cared about me. At times I wished I could die, disappear off the face of the earth.

Things were going along pretty well until Aunt Bernadette missed some of her makeup. She knew I didn’t take them, but she had suspicions. I was eager to repay her for her goodness to me.

Even though I didn’t live with my grandmother everyday, I had to go there to help with the chores. On my visit this particular day, I decided to search Aunt Viola’s dresser drawers. I found the missing cosmetics. I thought I could use this to bargain with my grandmother. I thought this discovery would prove to my grandmother that I was good. I couldn’t wait to tell her. It didn’t change her mind. Instead what happened surprised me. She turned on me and accused me of taking the makeup. As she hurled accusations, she was heading toward the willow tree to take a switch.

Before I could recover my senses as to what was about to happen, she demanded that I hold out my hand. As she laid the willow switch to my palm, I could feel it cut into the flesh of my hand. The pain filled my head. I no longer cared who she was. She was wrong. I had done nothing. I had to stop her. Her feelings of dislike toward me had gone on long enough. As she raised the switch to connect with my hand again, I grabbed it. She tried to pull it out of my hand. I gripped it tight, and as I stared into her eyes, I heard myself say, “If you hit me again, I will kill you.”

The Voice: “That day she pushed you over the edge. You were angry enough to carry out the threat.”

In that moment I hated her, but something covered me and my anger left as quickly as it came. I didn’t like what I became that day. I was ashamed of that vile creature that surfaced. I silently vowed never to allow that person to surface again. Grandma Ethel called my mother and said I was crazy. She wanted my mother to take me right away but it didn’t happen. She never hit me again but her mistreatment continued. She liked to humiliate me, put me down in front of the other kids.

My father started writing me letters. I don’t know if I wrote him first, but we began corresponding with each other. Sometimes he would send two or three dollars in the letter. Grandma Ethel would intercept the letters and take the money out. She made me stand in front of the other children and read the letter out loud while they snickered. This was her way of getting back at me. I felt powerless.

Word came that Grandpa Johnson was sick, and no one knew whether he was going to make it. Grandma Ethel refused to take me to see him, though rumor had it that he was asking for me.
I remember crying out, “Is there anybody who will shield me from all of this?”

To Be Continued in Part 6.

Conversations With God Part 4

2010-07-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

(An excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com book store)

The Voice: “It’s not what you wear that make you, it’s what I am down on the inside of you. Don’t let it bother you, walk with your head held high.”

Yes, those were the words that comforted me. I vowed that morning never to let my grandmother break me; that I had to be strong.

My new school was okay. My math teacher favored me. He took a liking to me, began giving me his lunches. His sandwiches were filled with meat as opposed to mine, which were usually peanut butter and jelly. It was never anything I liked. I grew suspicious of his motives because it was happening too often. After awhile I took the sandwich out of courtesy and respect for him as an adult. His generosity caused me to be guarded.

One evening the Professor showed up at Grandma Ethel’s wanting to take me to some school event. I protested but Grandma Ethel made me go.

The Voice: “That was the night you found yourself walking down the road with your underpants in your hand, sobbing that she will not believe you. She’ll think you were the cause of it.”

That was all I remembered from that night. The things I saw at Grandma Ethel’s house. The images of a couple of small kids giving oral pleasure to my aunt Michelle in the outhouse would never go away. The other was the image of a baby girl being bounced up and down on Uncle Josh’s lap as his face showed pleasure.

The Voice: “I left those fragments there so you would remember in order to write about them. Do you remember once in your youth you asked me to take it away and I said that I was leaving it there so you could write about it one day?”

Yes, I accepted what was said, and I never questioned again.

At this point I wanted to stop writing, the pain was too great. I did not want to go any further with this. I dismissed the thought. I could feel a presence with me. I held on to His promise to be with me. My desire to see my journey through was more compelling than my pain. I refused to stop. The story must be told.

In one of my playful moments as a child, I was wrestling with an old hound dog that hung out in the yard. I was trying to ride him like a horse. I straddled his back and as his back rubbed between my thighs, a warmth poured from my body.

The Voice: “You were aroused.”

Now I know. I panicked, leaped off the dog, blinded by tears, and ran from place to place in the yard looking for somewhere to hide. I was afraid of what was happening to me. I ended up in the barn. I was scared. I couldn’t stop crying. I heard myself saying, “What’s wrong with me?”

The Voice: “By this time you had been violated and used enough times that you were sexually aroused.”

I knew something was wrong. I never talked to anybody about what happened that day. I dismissed it as just another question about what was wrong with me. I had no intention of straddling another dog’s back.

The journey slows down with the chicken house incident. This memory brought on feelings of shame. This was the time I cornered my brother Armstrong in the hen house and attempted to undo his pants.

The Voice: “Stop that. What are you doing? That’s wrong. Not your brother.”
Those were the words I heard that day. I shutter to think what would have happened had I been allowed to have sex with my brother that day. I ran away leaving my brother standing there in confusion.

To Be Continued in Part 5.

Conversations With God Part 3

2010-07-18T14:56:00.000-07:00

(An Excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment
At www.print2publish.com bookstore)

The Voice: “Aunt Viola liked to play house with you. You didn’t like it because she always wanted you to play the daddy, the man.”

I couldn’t object because she was bigger than I, so I let her have her way with me. Silently, in my mind, I would tell her, “I’m not a daddy. I’m a girl like you. Get off me. You’re too heavy. I don’t like this. Please get up. I don’t want to do this anymore.” My heart sank into sadness remembering how helpless I felt.

I hated Sunday mornings at Grandma Ethel’s house. Everyone had to go to church. You didn’t miss church. Church frightened me. People shouting, jumping up and down, screaming—they seemed out of control. The teaching part of Sunday School I enjoyed. Grandma Ethel pretended to be a loving and kind person at church, but at home she was mean and hateful.

Sundays always brought the preacher home to dinner. There was never enough to eat, but the preacher always ate first. We looked on, hoping he would leave enough to fill our tummies. Sometimes Grandma Ethel would give us the uneaten portion left on his plate. Her actions made me dislike preachers.

The Voice: “She was the only grand-mother that ever took you to church, forced you to go to church.”

I thought for a moment, “It’s true.” Bible verses echoed in my mind. It was through this forced experience I learned there was another source of love besides my grandparents and my parents.

The Voice: “You thought I had forsaken you. I was there all the time.”

Grandma Ethel had enrolled us in a school near where she lived. It was a small wooden building, nothing fancy; it set back off the road.

The Voice: “That’s where you wore the shoes with the hog ring in the toe to hold the sole on.”

Grandma Ethel’s bitterness was visible in how she dressed me. She wouldn’t repair my dresses. She made excuses not to buy me shoes. I remembered the day she told Grandpa Jessie to put a hog ring in my shoe because I was destructive, tore up everything. She claimed that the reason I had to go around like this was because my mother wasn’t sending money regularly to take care of us.

As I boarded the bus for school I was apprehensive about my appearance. I feared whether the kids would notice my shoe and make fun of me. I thought, “This is her way of hurting me.” Just as I was thinking about running away—

To Be Continued in Part 4.

Conversations With God Part 2

2010-07-18T14:47:00.000-07:00

(An Excerpt from my book The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment at www.print2publish.com bookstore)

The Voice: “‘Why do good people have to die and bad people live?’ ”

“You are right, I was thinking that at the time.”

Maggie’s death didn’t bring my parents back together. My father came for the funeral, left us with his father, and went on his way. I wondered how daddy could leave us again. He never asked how things were going. I could have told him some things had he taken the time, or cared to know. He didn’t care. His life and happiness was all that mattered.

With Grandpa Johnson’s physical limitation, I assumed the role of mother to the other three kids. No one asked me. I was the oldest. I was okay with that until Grandpa Johnson insisted I sleep with him at night.At first I thought, “He misses her.” I was uncomfortable but I dismissed it. His behavior was confusing but I dared not question him.

I have no memory of when I started to school or any early learning experience. I do remember my first encourager: her name was Ms. Helen. She was an elementary school piano teacher. She was the first person who praised me. I’m not sure how I ended up taking piano lessons. My mother’s sisters were into singing and piano so I guess I took the interest from them.

I don’t remember what I did to cause Ms. Helen’s comments but I have never forgotten her words. “Ashley, you are improving. If you work a little harder at this you could get good at it.” I bottled those words. I hung onto them because no one had ever told me that I could do anything.

What prompted Grandma Ethel to feel that Grandpa Johnson couldn’t take care of four children alone, especially three girls, I don’t know, but Grandma Ethel came and took us to live with her. She felt girls needed to have a woman around. I resented her. I felt secure with Grandpa Johnson. I was too young to do anything about the move or to have any say so.

I didn’t want to go with her. I wanted my mom and dad. We had been sheltered from my mother’s parents. My first reaction was to dislike her. She seemed a bit rough, cold, and hateful. Ethel and Jessie had twelve children. My mother was the oldest girl. There were four left at home.

I left Grandpa Johnson’s house not trusting adults. By this time I had formed the opinion that little children had no decision in what happened to them. I fought adjusting to her house. I longed to be back with Grandpa Johnson. I worried about him.

Grandma Ethel showed her bitterness toward me. She treated me as if I had done something wrong. She reinforced it with words like “You are never going to amount to anything but a house full of children and no man around to take care of them.” She associated my looking like my father to not being good. According to her, that look alike was enough to doom me to failure in life.

The bad feelings of the past returned. I wanted to take a break from this writing. I prayed silently that God would help me get through these feelings. A promise was a promise. I had to continue.

Living with Grandma Ethel was an adjustment because four of her kids were still at home. We didn’t bring a lot of things, except our clothes. The few we had became community property. We shared beds and sometimes underwear with the others.

To Be Continued in Part 3.

Conversations with God - Part 1

2008-08-23T11:08:00.000-07:00

(This is an excerpt from my book: The Rise Above My Father's Abandonment. It was the most painful write I have ever penned but when I look back it is worth it. Our lives start somewhere but through the eyes of someone else's journey we can be liberated.)

You Are Invited to come along with me. Don't be afraid. It's worth it.

" I am the oldest daughter of four children born to Richard and Elizabeth Johnson.

I was born in a small town in the Carolinas. It is a farm and fishing town. Townspeople would travel 20-30 miles to work as maids, clerks, or some other professions. Businesses range from a barber shop, beauty salon, several grocery stores, restaurants and real estate offices, to name a few.

I grew up in a small community where there was an atmosphere of trust among neighbors, friends and family. Superstitions and tall tales had its place among the gossip and rumors, which often surfaced about people casting spells on other people. Everyone knew each other and the children.

I remember being fussed over by my father’s mother, Maggie. Richard was her only child. It’s no wonder when I was born she thought the sun rose and set on me. She thought I could do no wrong. In her attempts to discipline me she found my negative habits cute. I had been labeled spoil.

I was not prepared for my parents’ separation. I heard people talk but things looked okay from a child’s perspective. I remember times when my mother and father argued—how he never took her seriously, Daddy smiled all the time, even when they argued. Nothing seemed to bother him.

Daddy and I had been close at one time; at least, so I believed. He made me feel that I was more special than mother. I wasn’t close with my mother. Because mother allowed Grandma Maggie to favor me over the other children, I was confused as to who this lady I called “mom” really was.

I have no negative memories of my father. He wasn’t violent or abusive. He drank a lot and liked to party. I thought we were a happy family. Nothing for a kid to worry about.

The breakup did come and we kids went to live with my dad’s parents, Maggie and Grandpa Johnson. Maggie picked meat out of crab shells and packed it into cans at this factory. Grandpa Johnson didn’t work. He had a stroke, which affected his left side long before I was born. They lived in a small house back in the woods on a lake with lots of fig, pecan, peach, and apple trees.

There were good times there. Grandpa Johnson took a lot of time with me. I was his favorite child. He always seemed to single me out and show me special attention over the other children. All of my life all I ever heard was how special I was to Grandpa Johnson and Maggie.

A few months after we went to live with them Grandma Maggie died while working in the crab factory. It was a shock. She dropped dead. I thought, “Why now?” All I could think about was what was going to happen to us. No one else seemed to care about us except Maggie and Grandpa Johnson.

The Voice: “‘Why do good people have to die and bad people live?’ ”

The story continues part 2