The Incidents with my step-mom are so numerous, that I felt they would be best portrayed in three seperate blogs. Not unlike my first entry, this blog contains true events from my life. Ever embarrassing detail. Please bear with me...
The Early Days:
My father married the wicked witch of the west. Seriously.
About 1 year after my mother died, my father got re-married. That's correct. One year. I was happy for him. Well, as happy as any ten year old would be in a situation like that. It was such a relief that my dad had started smiling again, that he could have married anyone, and I would not have cared. My brother's and sisters, however, were not happy for him. Not at all. Since they were all older and lived on their own, they stopped coming over to visit me and my dad. I rarely got phone calls, and when I did see them, all they wanted to talk about was my dad's new wife. My brother, William, hung around as long as he could stand, seeing as he was still in high school. But even he left eventually, leaving just my Dad, step-mom, and me to live happily-ever-after, right?
Wrong.
Around the two year mark, things started to change between my step-mom and me. I didn't notice this change until shortly after my twelfth birthday. Puberty came on full force, and I was left with a choice. Talk to my step-mom, a fellow female, or talk to my dad. You can guess which one I chose. However, when I tried to tell my step-mom that I think I needed to go get "the necessary supplies", she told me that she was on the phone and didn't have time right then. I waited for TWO hours for her to get off the phone. TWO HOURS. I was so mortified because I thought I had done something wrong. Finally she took me to get what I needed, but the whole way she complained about how, " It's not my job", and "Why should I care?". I was so confused because I was twelve years old, and apparently had no one to turn too. I eventually started going to my dad when i needed anything. It was embarrassing, but it was better than being glared at.
Shortly after this is when the name calling started. While my father was at work, and I was left home with my step-mom, she would start calling me names. At first she would tell me I was fat, and had to change what I was wearing. She called me a slut, and a whore, and many more colorful words I don't dare mention here. Mind you, I was a straight A student and have never been "fat" a day in my life. Some of the other things she called me was ugly, stupid, and worthless. Every day, at least five times a day, she would tell me that I was never going to amount to anything. No one would ever want me as a wife, and no one would ever love me. She told me that I was going to end up just like the rest of my family. A waste of space. Now, this all occurred from the time I was twelve, to the time I was seventeen. Five years of hearing I was never going to be good enough.
I told my dad what happened every time she said something mean. He said that he would tell her to stop, and she did, for awhile. But there was one day she crossed the line. the one day I finally snapped....
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Beginning.
As this is my first blog, I suppose I should explain my story. My youth pastor is actually the one who got me interested in writing a blog. I have always loved to write, but have never found the correct outlet for it. He suggested that I write a blog, if only just to keep track of my thoughts. So her it goes...
I had quite the normal childhood until I turned 7 years old. My mother was diagnosed with cancer and not given long to live. Now, being 7, I really did not understand the full reality of the situation. I understood that my mom was very sick, but words such as ravenous, malignant, and terminal meant nothing to me. I can remember looking at the doctors thinking they were speaking a different language. How was I supposed to know that what they were telling me meant my mother was going to die, that she was going to die and never come back?
Around the time I turned 8, she had surgery, a trachiotomy(excuse the spelling), to remove the cancer. It was a miracle, so to speak. Sure, she couldn't talk, but the doctors thought for sure that they got all the cancer out of her body. The joy was short lived, however, when they discovered another tumor, this time on her brain. It was pressing against her eardrum from the inside and there was nothing the doctors could do. She was going to die.
So, my family did what most families would do. We took a vacation. Consider it one last time to make memories with my mother. I had turned 9 by this point, and was slowly realizing I was losing my mother. I watched her deteriorate right before my eyes. She lost so much weight, and her hair just fell out in clumps. It was so hard to watch, but I couldn't not watch, I didn't dare miss one moment I had to spend with my mother. The saddest days were the ones that she did not remember who I was. She would look at me without recognition, and I would cry to my dad, "Why doesn't Mommy remember me???" It was soon after this that we lost her. One cold November day, one I will never forget, my mother took her last breath, and left this world.
This November will mark the 10th anniversary of her death, and I can still remember every detail as if it were yesterday. I won't forget my mother. I fight to recall her face, her smile, her smell; but I will never forget her spirit. She was a fighter and so am I. Even if I didn't know how much I would have to fight in the years that followed her death...
I had quite the normal childhood until I turned 7 years old. My mother was diagnosed with cancer and not given long to live. Now, being 7, I really did not understand the full reality of the situation. I understood that my mom was very sick, but words such as ravenous, malignant, and terminal meant nothing to me. I can remember looking at the doctors thinking they were speaking a different language. How was I supposed to know that what they were telling me meant my mother was going to die, that she was going to die and never come back?
Around the time I turned 8, she had surgery, a trachiotomy(excuse the spelling), to remove the cancer. It was a miracle, so to speak. Sure, she couldn't talk, but the doctors thought for sure that they got all the cancer out of her body. The joy was short lived, however, when they discovered another tumor, this time on her brain. It was pressing against her eardrum from the inside and there was nothing the doctors could do. She was going to die.
So, my family did what most families would do. We took a vacation. Consider it one last time to make memories with my mother. I had turned 9 by this point, and was slowly realizing I was losing my mother. I watched her deteriorate right before my eyes. She lost so much weight, and her hair just fell out in clumps. It was so hard to watch, but I couldn't not watch, I didn't dare miss one moment I had to spend with my mother. The saddest days were the ones that she did not remember who I was. She would look at me without recognition, and I would cry to my dad, "Why doesn't Mommy remember me???" It was soon after this that we lost her. One cold November day, one I will never forget, my mother took her last breath, and left this world.
This November will mark the 10th anniversary of her death, and I can still remember every detail as if it were yesterday. I won't forget my mother. I fight to recall her face, her smile, her smell; but I will never forget her spirit. She was a fighter and so am I. Even if I didn't know how much I would have to fight in the years that followed her death...
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