Just for once, I would like someone to say something positive about me. Not what they hear from others. Not from the people who play havoc with my mind.Not someone poisonous. Not someone coercing me. Not someone who is fabricating stories about me. They ridicule me, even taunting me. Maybe they see me as worthless.They spread malicious gossip about me. If only people would like and respect me. I don’t want to be seen as desperate, or a people pleaser. Even as a child they said I was vile. They tell me I’m too sensitive, they tell me to be positive. They tell me I have my head in the clouds. Some days the sky is a blank canvas. I paint my portrait.
See, my face watch my body language and emotional baggage. I’m not false I have my faults, but I’m honest. I hate lies, they pretty much destroyed me. I dug my own grave trying to get you out of yours. I sometimes feel like a maggot in a bowl of rice. They write I live in squalor, yes, I know I am a woman of color, I’m not playing the race card. They want to silence me, I have a platform that wants to tell the public Lisa Brennan is a liar. She said she saw me grope my grandson. She stabbed me in the back and tells everyone she was bleeding. They mock me, write that I’m unstable. They think I am dog vomit, or from another planet. The authorities are like locusts destroying my brain, they don’t see my inner pain. They see me as a misfit, a weirdo, deep in my soul there is a struggling hero. My abusers are mainly my family or people who are trained to support me. My mother is the ring leader. I went through hell because she wasn’t there for me
How do I forget the misery and cruelty raining down on me?
My grandmother along with my deranged, violent sadist grandfather raised me. My mother sent me four letters my grandmother wrote to her saying that I was lazy, said I was lying on my bed staring at the ceiling I didn’t do my chores, gathering fire wood and scubbing floors. I should have been able to tell my grandmother what the two teenage boys were doing to me, they were lying in wait for me. They chased me knock me over put their dirty hands over my mouth, my screams are not silent in my dreams.
In my grandmother’s generation, we didn’t talk about sex and menstruation, It started when I was around twelve years old, I was frightened and ashamed. I honestly thought someone had cast a very bad spell on me. I was fifteen years old when my grandmother died, I had a mental age of five. Trauma had taken it’s toll on me. I missed my grandmother, but I was so happy to be taken away from my dysfunctional home, grieving was the last thing on my mind
No more physical, sexual, and mental abuse. No raised angry voices
smashing crockery and breaking furniture. A new home a bright future. Freedom is both beautiful and wonderful. by Dorothy Maude m