Angel of Fury: A Memoir Before anyone knows my story, they must know my family. That I know of, only one person has successfully attended college, three supposedly graduated high school, and most of them completed Elementary school. There is no doubt in my mind that I am ashamed to call those people my family. I don’t communicate with or visit about ninety percent of them. The ones I do live with are probably the ones I should stand clear of, for they are the worst. My mother is the Queen Bee of my living hell, though. Not only did she choose sex and drugs over her former intelligent self, but she also chose sex, drugs, and men over her own kids, especially me. It’s safe to say that I’m the favorite. My family members and my mother’s boyfriends seem to love to watch me suffer, weep, and plea. I suppose that’s all I’m good for… Prepare for a story of only one girl’s childhood. To this day, I refuse to believe she was me. My father didn’t believe I was his daughter, so he carelessly left my mother with two daughters take in. My older sister was two, myself one. Without a doubt, her solution was to find someone else to raise her children. His name was Joe. He had a daughter around three, my age, when I met him. That little girl blamed my sister and me for everything. Our punishment was to strip naked and take the stinging belt like a man. He made my mother watch, too. I remember looking up at her, crying, “Mama, make it stop.” She only replied, “I can’t, baby.” Afterwards, my sister and I would go to bed no matter the time of day, then cry ourselves to sleep. I was a rather pale child, so the red belt marks would last and sting for days. If the stunt was really unacceptable, I had to sleep on my stomach for a few nights. To this day, I am
reminded of the emphatic yap of the leather belt every time I make a mistake- big or small. Some people call me a perfectionist. I simply find myself scared shitless. Before long, Joe taught me what grown-ups took pleasure in doing to each other. I would place my little hands where he wanted me to, grasp his genitalia like a puppet on tight strings, and use my mouth to make him feel like a man as my baby teeth peered through. I was a quick learner, so this was a daily routine. For every gasp and release he would take, I was the provider. For every pound he laid upon my gentle body, my heart would sink to the pits of nothingness. My soul was in a place no one should ever visit, for it was too easy to give up on the life God had given me. Around Independence Day, the kids were all ready to go to a barbeque at Momo’s, Joe’s mom’s house. But Joe wanted to have a little fun while my mom was at the store. She came back to find my sister and me naked behind the sofa, where Joe laid naked as well. Our sun-dresses were drenched in semen here and there, and our hair was falling out of place from sweating so much. Guess how my mom reacted. “Oh, my goodness, Joe! You got them all dirty! I had them ready to go, but now I have to take their baths again!” I. Was. Stunned. When I heard the door unlock, a feeling of relief feel through me. I thought I would be saved. My playtime would finally end. But no. All mama cared about was her stupid-ass reputation. That’s all that matter to her then, and it's all that matters to her now. The mile-deep trench dug into my heart that day remains a hideous gash that bleeds out when I remember the sight of her face and the sound of her voice that day, for the realization that my mama didn’t love me scarred me for eternity.
We still made it to the barbeque- a little late, maybe, but we still got there. The suffering didn’t end, though. Joe spread the word of his new obedient daughter. I was his family’s new playtoy. Then Steven came along. While everyone was in the backyard, I was on the sofa making Steven feel satisfied with his manhood. I was forced to look up at him as his large, sweaty hand grasped my head, forcing me up and down, up and down, up and down. I don’t remember stopping. All I know is that I’ll never be able to do it again. Too many memories. Too many nightmares. Too many times… At last, the day of trial finally arrived. Joe was going to prison…only not because of me. My mother made herself the victim, using my story. Joe wouldn’t have it, though. While furious with her lie, he stood up on the stand with the judge present, bailiff present, jury present, family present, and CPS present, yelling, “I made those girls suck my dick, and that bitch knew about it!” Although I don’t remember this, I read the transcript. It happened. Somehow, someway, the judge sentenced Joe to eighteen years in prison without the possibility of parole until midsentence on a count of stalking. What? Where did that come from? My mom was just as guilty as he was, yet neither of them paid for it. I will never understand. Regardless of the fact that my mom got away with it, she still punished me for confirming her dirtiest secret: she knew. For every mistake I made, from eating too late to stealing money, she would drag me by my hair, throw me down on the ground, and kick me while I was down. At the time, I thought I deserved it for being such a burden on the single mother when I was actually paying for something I did a long time ago.
At the age of six, I moved in with my grandmother for the first time, and I was finally free. But, I was living in even worse poverty. We were evicted for too many disturbances and too may late rent payments (if any), and the third time was the last time. My uncle came along to bring me back to the old days of acting like a woman. This time, lotion and kissing was involved. When people ask about my first kiss, I immediately say the third grade, when I first kissed a boy my own age, not my tio. I honestly don’t remember hating him because it was nothing really new. I was used to being used. I was supposed to make him happy. I let him have his way with me, so the day he was sent to jail, I blamed myself. It was my fault. I should have been trapped behind black, metal bars for letting him do those things. Years later, I realized he was the only one who did the time for his sickening crimes. All the others, not one night. At the age of nine, my grandmother and a different uncle were sent away to live on their own. This was while I lived in Rowlett. This was also around the time I changed my name. My ten-year-old sister, my six-year-old brother, my twenty-eight-year-old mother, and I changed our names to give us a new beginning. I rather enjoyed picking my own name. After the name-change finalized, the new social security numbers came through, and the birth certificates were created, we moved to Sachse. We had a large house with our own rooms, own pool, own backyard, own car, and FOOD. After so many years of getting personal with Macaroni and Cheese, Raman Noodle, and canned veggies, I was more than happy to have a variety of food to choose from. No, my family didn’t win the lottery. My mother got married to an old guy with enough cash to make her happy for a few years.
Life was normal‌then it all came crashing down. It was the end of my seventh grade year when her husband saw one word lustfully tattooed across my forehead-well, lips: available. I. Had. Enough. 9-1-1 was the answer. No more, NO MORE! Sure, it was just a kiss with his nasty tongue in my adolescent mouth full of braces. But, it never ends there, and I always get hurt. It was time for them to pay. What did my innocent little mother do, huh? She said I lied. He said I lied. The officer said I was the girl who cried wolf. No one believed me. My sister did...but then she didn't. It was my word against his. The man always wins when the poor little girl is in the fight, especially since I couldn't even find the strength to stand up for myself. I was all out of guns, out of troops, and out of hope. I was alone, begging for someone to save me like a Damsel in Distress. All doors were slammed in my face, and no windows were to be seen that night. The next day, instead of going to the bus stop for school, I packed all of my clothes into my hamper and set my backpack on top of it, and that's how I started out my life here in Garland. I grasped my sister's shoulders like a child does her teddy bear. I sobbed until my eyes gave up on me, turning my piping hot tears into white stains upon my cheeks. I didn't mind losing the house, losing the stuck-up school, losing the dogs, losing my friends, or even losing the food. I couldn't lose my sister. But I had to let her go. I told the truth. I challenged my mother's views. I had to go. I was no longer a part of my mother's family.
The day I moved was the day I died. Every breath I took, I didn't mind being my last. Life seemed too dark, too unfair, too empty. No direction was loud and clear. I knew the city name and the apartment number, so I knew my brain remained functional, but my emotions failed me. I had no words to describe my thoughts. When I look back on that day, I believe I may not have been thinking at all. I've never had a choice in life. Ever. The move was too much. I didn't feel like eating, so I stopped eating. I couldn't sleep, so I cried all night. Before I knew it, the streaks of blood from my upper theigh and left wrist reached my eyes. I was one of those kids who I called weak on teen dramas. Everything I judged them for, I became. I starved myself during the day, binged at night, then threw up before my nightly shower. Many words about myself travelled through what was left of me: Worthless. Nobody. Nothing. Stupid. Selfish. Rotten. There was no one who understood what I was going through. Besides, I didn't know who to turn to. At every corner, someone hurt me, pitied me, or told me to suck it up.
Even so, I was saved. Not by family, not by friends, not by nature, and certainly not by food, but by school. I was always told I was a quick learner, but I never put that skill to good use. I do believe in God, but school was my true Savior. I listened to my teachers, kept calm in class, studied every night, practiced my instrument every day, and felt worthy again. It was no facade. Perhaps my happiness was fabricated, but my intelligence certainly was not. Of course, boys stepped into the picture as well. Many people believe that sexual abuse makes women nearly hate sex and men altogether, but that's bullshit. Other than great success in life, there was nothing that I wanted more than to be touched. I've told other students that the only way to make something they dislike a habit, they must first learn to love it. My childhood taught me that much. At the age of three, I learned to love sexual contact. It is certainly one thing to be tempted; it is quite another to constantly be sexually driven. In general, I don't mind this effect, but a part of me believes that it's my punishment for allowing too many men to walk all over me. I'm not the kind of person to "just say no." I'm the kind of girl who has to shut down all of her emotions in order to keep in mind her priorities in life. It's hard for anyone to avoid the thing they want and sometimes can't find themselves without, but I have to work extra hard. It's one of the consequences of being the favorite. I may be fragile, gullable, "deflowered," and angry, but I am also strong, courageous, intelligent, and most of all, a survivor. I may not be used to committment, but I don't run away from my problems. I may be furious without justice in my hands, but I can't be any more optimistic. AND, I may carry my baggage everywhere I go, but for every freckle upon my face,
every scar upon my body, and every memory at the back of my mind, I am an angel placed inside a damaged body, not a damaged soul inside a life I can't handle.