It's dark, and what should be a calm quiet house is in fact scene of chaos in belligerent ramblings between my mom and stepdad. Glass shattering against the same wall our family photos hung upon. I can't quite pinpoint the motive behind such a censorious conversation. It wasn't uncommon to sit front row for these poor mannered skits. At 11 years old the perfect view you once had of the World begins to reveal flaw. Experiences that innocence and ignorance once shielded you from, now brazenly make you question your understanding of the world. My sister 7 at the time didn't quite possess the same tools to understand That stress and struggle coexist in life. I wasn't surprised when she had woken up crying scared and confused as she crawled into my bed. I could always comfort her by softly dragging my nails up-and-down her back. I usually fell asleep to the sweet sounds of belittling remarks exchanged amongst my parents. But that night I caught word of something that confused even Me. “I was raped OK. Justin is not sarahs real dad. I can't even tell my own daughter who her dad Is.” I guess even at 11 years old you're still naïve because I had never questioned the blood relation between my sister's dad and I. the long night of obnoxious happenings continued unto morning.
The familiar smell of my mom's favorite perfume catches my attention almost as if to remind me it's Sunday. Still hurt and unsure of the shocking news about my true descent I dress myself for church. Church was a place of secrets for my family. Eyes gazed upon our family as a pure example of God guided living. It was almost impressive how well we hid our hypocrisy. The dishonesty of this routine continued week after week Saturdays were saturated in religious shortcomings followed by Sunday’s were made up of counterfeited grace and devotion to the Lord. Truth be told the cycle was practiced with such consistency it became natural to me. Weeknights replay of shouting and violence and a weeks worth of sin was repented each Sunday only to be demonstrated again and again. At home by example I was taught to yell and talk down on anyone with different views and at church I was taught to treat others with the same grace GOD has given me. My parents didn’t know how to practice what was preached. This trended for years to come.
My mom and stepdad tried their best to compensate for their meager parenting skills. We often spent free time at the lake. We sang, we danced and we enjoyed laughs by the fire. If only the drinks leading up to stumbling and disarray could be expunged from my young recollection, I’d have memories of uninterrupted bliss. But sadly, like many children in my shoes, I adhered more closely to reality than fantasy. The daily life of an emotionally neglected child spares no time for illusion.
I learned to focus my energy on softball I didn't know it at the time but softball save my life. It became a way for me to forget about the stress of living a double life. Softball became the only thing I could associate to a normal childhood. I was a great player. Something I was finally good at. My pain and anger transformed to motivation to work hard. I found pride in growing as a player. Blood sweat and tears from a healthy source. I began to save all my frustrations for the field. Coaches guided my skills with pleasure. I felt excited. I started to spend more time practicing and learning new technique and fell in love with finding buried rules in the playbook to teach the team. I didn’t even react at home anymore. I avoided my moms addiction the best I could. And sheilded my sister from it as best I could. But it wasn’t always easy. In fact, there were still plenty of times my mom's selfish habits stole from the happiness softball brought me. Numerous times in public around teammates and their families. The scenes contributed to friends parents denying my pleas for sleepovers and playdates at my house. My sister and I were deprived common childhood joys because of our parents I'll mannered actions. Chunks of my childhood were dictated by the slurs of my mom and stepdad and their addiction. I constantly found myself lying to cover up the fact that my parents were alcoholics. Part of the reason I lied was to protect them but mostly to protect myself and my sister. it's hard to come up with new excuses why your mom needs to be carried to the car or why the cops were at your house. I barely have enough digits to represent the amount of domestic violence calls were made. It's not a common experience to learn and greet sheriffs by first name. It seemed as if they assigned the same sheriff to be dispatched to our home.There’s an unexplainable pain that comes with juggling adult minded struggles as a child And almost impossible to figure out how to teach your younger siblings how to cope.
Often times being dropped off from practice these episodes were witnessed by teammates and their parents, I was offered to help with rides to and from Practices and games to help offset some embarrassment. However the embarrassment followed Me in everything I did. I hid accomplishments and invitations to activities for fear of opening the door to disaster. This behavior of omission caused me to become rebellious and sneaky and I lacked attention and motivation for school work. I began picking up on my own unhealthy habits. A good amount of this time was compiled with feelings of confusion and pain and thoughts of my father. Too much stress for a young girl to carry. Middle school marked the beginning of my misguidance.
YOU ARE READING
If you let it
Non-FictionA memoir of how my life experiences set me up for failure and how faith kept me from falling
