Part 1

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         I was four. For some reason, I remember every detail of this. I remember it was Saturday morning (because of cartoons). We had just moved into a trailer, and my mom and dad’s bedroom wasn’t fully up and running, so they had a fold out couch in the livingroom. When I woke up, my dad was already up. He was sitting on the edge of the fakebed, and watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on CBS (I remember this in DETAIL!!!). when I noticed he was awake, I asked if I could have a glass of milk. He nodded, and got up to make it for me. I even remember the cup. It was a slim, pale blue, plastic cup. My dad filled it all the way with milk. We walked back to the livingroom and he sat on the fakebed, while I climbed on it. My mistake was doing this with the milk in my hand, as the cup fell out of my hand, and all over the fakebed. He picked up the cup and hit me with great force on top of my head, causing me to cry, causing my mom to wake, causing pandemonium. The next thing I remember is being in the hospital. Apparently, he hit me so hard, my skull was split open. I remember them cutting my hair away to get to the wound (Yes. Patients worst nightmare. I woke up during surgery... and I was only four... and I remember it in great detail....)​.



        All throughout my childhood, he would force me to watch Pink Floyd: The Wall. I like that movie now, but seeing it as a three year old is a very scary experience, and I had many a nightmare.



       Christmas 1993. My dad was chasing my cousins and I through the house with a power drill (mind you, there was a bit in it, along with a full battery). We ran in my room and closed the door, a couple of my cousins leaning against it. My dad drilled through the door, the bit coming out just an inch away from my oldest cousin’s head... (That was my dad “playing”.)



      We used to go out to the lake. My dad and his friends would drag me to the deeper part, where the floor disappears, and the only thing keeping you from sinking is your strength and God’s will. The whole group would play “human volleyball” with me. I would be thrown between them all, and if someone missed, I pretty much went to the bottom. Being as I was four, and couldn’t swim, someone would have to dive down for me. Another time at the lake (yes, the same lake), everyone was getting in the water, and my dad went out several feet and turned around. I wasn’t going in. He reached his arms out and said, “I’ve got you.” I took a few steps in, and without any warning, pain shot up my leg. When I started screaming, my dad thought it was out of fear of the water, and he made fun of me. My aunt was the one (having three kids) who recognized the scream of pain. She ran in and grabbed me, lifting me into both her arms. Everyone went quiet when my left leg came out of the water. Blood was all over my foot, and pouring into the lake. It only took twenty seconds for everyone to get out of the lake. My uncle was the one who dove in where I was at when I screamed and found the broken beer bottle. It had completely sliced open my left pinkie toe. I understand that this wasn’t my dad’s fault (it surprisingly wasn’t his beer bottle...), but my only memory of him ever saying “I’ve got you” or anything similar ended with me seriously injured.



      I was five. That I remember because I went to my Kindergarten class with a cast on my arm. We were at one of my dad’s friend’s houses, and were all in the backyard. I was left unattended with the dog (a chow). On the ground laid a toy of a spider. I looked at the toy and the dog looked at me. I leaned forward to pick the toy up, and the dog growled. I didn’t know what that meant, so I picked the toy up. I think. I don’t really remember holding the toy, just laying on the ground, screaming as the chow made a chew toy out of my right hand. When they finally got the dog off, my right ring finger was dangling, and my hand didn’t look like a hand. Almost every bone in the hand was broken, which left my hand slightly disfigured. It’s been sixteen years, and it is still healing. If I use that hand too much, it aches really bad. Only had seven stitches. Left a nasty scar. I was later told that my dad was within ten feet of me when I was attacked, and all he did was tell everyone to let me fend for myself, and got mad when two people got the dog off me.



       My dad is a raging alcoholic. He always has been. He always will be. When I was eight, I made my mom a snowglobe in school for Christmas. She put it on the shelf in the livingroom (different house) for everyone to see. He came by one day in a raging fit (my mom filed for divorce when I was 6. He didn't even live there). In his anger, he picked up that snowglobe and threw it as hard as he could (which, in his drunkenness, was pretty hard), and it shattered against the wall. When I started crying, he turned and backhanded me.















Part 2

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        I don’t hold grudges. My dad moved to Dallas, and I didn’t see him for almost ten years. I heard he was back in Abilene, so when I lived in Merkel, and needed a place to stay in Abilene till I got on my feet, I asked if I could stay with him. I had barely finished the sentence when he said yes. You could ask my stepsisters; I was happy.



       I moved in with him Sunday, 28 September 2008.   Along with him, I met my stepmom, Peggy, my sister I never knew about, KC, her daughters (MY NIECES!!!!), Destiny, 14, Haili, 12, and Satghn (pronounced “Satin”), 8. Satghn and I were like bestfriends. In ther six months I lived there, I was pushed away by everyone in turn except Satghn. She seemed to be the only one there who even loved me. And she was only 8. She understood me better than anyone else there did.



     My dad, Peggy, and KC were sever alcoholics. There was always a fight going on there. I mainly stuck to my room, because when I left it, they found some way to drag me into it. They found ways to blame me for pretty much everything. All the adults in the house (me included), had food stamps. I never saw my card until I didn’t live there anymore. They would use my card to stock up the fridge and cabinets with stuff just for them, and tell me that I could only eat the sandwich meat on the top shelf. Most of the time, the meat was past the date stamped on the label. They would usually cook dinner, and when I would ask to get some, they would give me some of the leftovers from previous nights. Rarely was any of the food I ate there was warm. One month, they actually let me use my card to shop. I bought a lot of nice food. And by nice food, I mean ramen noodles (sure, they have a bad rep, but think about it; they are very cheap, and you get a lot for your money). One day, KC stormed into my room and screamed, “THANKS FOR EATING ALL THE F****** RAMEN NOODLES, A******!” I tried to inform her that it was I who bought the ramen noodles, and that it was she who ate most them, yet she just continued using words that I won’t repeat because my asterisk button tends to jam...



       Shortly after Christmas, I got sick (possibly the flu). I was laying in bed and crying because of the pain. My dad needed help moving a recliner out to the dumpster. Well, as you can imagine, I wasn’t really up to it. My dad called me the other word for "cat" so many times while we moved that recliner...

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      When I first moved in, he told everyone that he was”so happy” to have me back in his life. However, most times, when I came around, he would say, “Get somewhere!” or “What are you doing out here?” (Meaning out of my room... I was in there on my own decision..).



     February 2, 2009. Out of nowhere, Peggy says, “I want you out of my house NOW!” I obviously had nowhere to go. She threw a few of my clothes into a laundry bag I had brought from Merkel, and my dad dropped my off at the Salvation Army. As he drove off, he flipped me off out the window and shouted, “F*** you! And good riddance!”. I waited till the car was out of site, then I started walking. I didn’t know where I was going to stay, but I knew it WASN’T going to be the Salvation Army.



        I was walking for three hours when I started to get scared...

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       "I am homeless again...."

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       Uttering those words to myself, I sank to my knees and wept. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk. I felt so lost, unloved, unwanted, nonexistent. They say that being homeless changes your view of the world. I've now been homeless twice.



       My aunt lived in the area, that I knew. I just couldn’t remember exactly where. So I set out to find her house. I wasn’t sure if she would help me, or even if she would be able to. I just felt that finding her was what I had to do. I admit, I didn’t pray the whole nine hours I was homeless. If I had, I may not have walked a total of 32 blocks up and down streets.

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      She lived four blocks from where my dad dropped my off.



      As soon as I told her what happened, she said I could stay with her for as long as I wanted, even if it was till I was 50.



     On 28 March 2009, I moved into my first apartment. Shortly afterward, I bought a digital video camera and made a few youTube videos. One of my bestfriends had a youTube channel, and I was bored, so I was googling all my friends. When I got to her name, I had several thousand results. I was curious, so I googled her youTube name. I got one full page.   I went to each of the links. The last one got my attention. I thought the name sounded little odd; Points With Purpose. I clicked on it...

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    ...and, long story short, she told me everything about her abuse. Out of love for my friend, I created an account on that site and when it came to account type, I selected Survivor and continued with the rest of the registration process. I started to click on the finish button, but didn’t. After all these years, no one knew my story. I was afraid people would ask why it said Survivor, and I didn’t want them to know. So I went back up, and changed account type to Supporter, and used my friend as an excuse.

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     On 2 August 2009, I was at a now ex-girlfriend’s house, and a fight broke out between her mother and grandmother. The fight gave me flashbacks to when I was little, and to when I lived with my dad in 2008. All this time, I thought I was over it. The fact that the fight scared me so much that I cried in my girlfriend’s arms was proof that I was nowhere near over it. After weeks of talking about it with friends, I sat down and typed this up.



 I know my story isn’t near as dramatic as most of the entries I have read on PWP, and that I may have even been a bit stupid in hiding it and keeping it in for so long, but I feel a little better knowing that it’s written...