…and the saga continues

If you have read my blog for any length of time, you know the story of Little J. For those that aren’t familiar, Little J is my partners niece. She came to live with us back in 2009 because child protective services had to intervene due to some problems her mother was having. She was in our care for about 11 months before she was returned home to her mom in early 2010. We had become accustomed to her being with us for that 11 month period, and it was extremely hard to see her leave. We of course had no choice and Little J was sent back home to her mom. About 7 months later, Little J’s mother called asking if we would be willing to take her again and put her in preschool (read She’s Back) We of course took her back and the cycle started again. Little J was with us for about 4 months before her mom and her “recently released from prison”daddy decided to abruptly take her back. I was furious about the situation and my partner was both furious and hurt by it…being that this is her sister that she is dealing with. It was an all out emotional roller coaster ride. After this last fiasco with Little J and her mom, I told my partner that all this back and forth with this child was ridiculous and when/if her sister asks for her help again, she needs to say hell no. You can’t play with people’s lives, their money and emotions when its convenient for you and that’s exactly what her sister was doing. From that point up until around July, we never saw Little J. We knew she was ok because other family members would inform my partner of how the kids were doing.

Skip up to August 2011. Little J is now 4 years old and child protective services is once again involved and Little J has again been removed from her mom’s custody and guess what: she is back with us.  I am glad that she is back, but I hate that she has to go through all of the foolishness that her mom and dad have put her through. As of today, she has been back almost 2 months. Despite the drama, she is happy and healthy and speaks about 1,000 words a minute on just about any subject you can imagine! She’s back in preschool, she takes dance and gymnastic classes and rides her bike as much as she can convince someone to take her out to ride.

So here we go again….

pray for us

…and pray for Little J.

A Random Thought

My mom died when I was 15 years old, so I never got the opportunity to have a relationship with her as an adult. These past few months I have wondered what kind of relationship she and I would have had at this point in life. Would we be close? Would we fight? Would we spend a lot of time together? Would we be friends? I hear friends talking about their mom did this and their mom is getting on their nerves etc and some days I just wish I could say such things. #JUSTATHOUGHT

Journey to Me: Entry #16

Entry #16 (click here to read entry #15)     

At 19 years old, I had been through more than some people twice my age. I had lost my mother, and 5 years later, I lost the aunt who raised both me and my brother. By the time I was 21 my father passed away and at 25 I lost my paternal grandmother who I adored. Life had not been a cake walk, but for some reason I was never knocked all the way down. There was always something in me that kept me going. My life at this time consisted of me holding down a part time job and going to college. My social life, for the most part was 90% church related and 10% everything else. I dated here and there, met some awesome dudes now that I look back on it, but dating was never that important to me. It was something to do…nothing more.

I spent a lot of time with Precious who basically became my stand in mother. School, shopping, and church related activities are what our time together usually consisted of. Once summer in particular, Precious was the young adult teacher for a national youth convention. This convention lasted about a week and since she was the teacher, we attended every session. It was actually a lot of fun spending the summer meeting people who were my age that were from all over the U.S. I hit it off with one girl in particular…I’ll call her VS. She was from Atlanta and was in Houston preparing to attend Rice U for graduate school. She and I became fast friends and since she didn’t know anyone in town, I became her tour guide for the remainder of her stay. VS went back to Atlanta for the remainder of the summer and we talked every single day. My long distance bills were outta this world at the time. This was before email, text messaging and cell phones were popular. We wrote letters and sent them thru what we affectionately call snail mail these days. Our talks/letters mainly consisted of religion, life, school, family and a little girl talk.

Nine months passed and VS was back in Houston for graduate school. The friendship that she and I developed all those months before continued once she moved to Houston. She became a part of my family, she joined the same church that I attended….wherever you saw one of us, there was 99% chance that the other one was close by. VS adopted Precious as her godmother and we all spent a whole lot of time together. Our friendship blossomed over the years: we ended up sharing an apartment, taking vacations together, visiting family together…doing almost everything together. I can say at this point that VS was truly my best friend…the best friend that I ever had. Graduate school ended for VS 3 years later and she told me she was moving back home for law school. I was devastated. I had this feeling that with VS being gone, my life would be boring and sad. I pondered whether or not I should go to Atlanta with her. I had always wanted to live there anyway and this would be the perfect opportunity. I didn’t go….I didn’t go at the time she did, It was one year later when I told her that I was gonna move; and move I did. VS and I were back together again…living the same kinda life we had in Houston. It was all good once again.

VS and I loved each other and it was 100% innocent. The line between friend and lover was never crossed. Frankly back then I didn’t know what or where that line was because sexuality wasn’t something that was discussed or even explored openly. Although VS and I never had a physical relationship, there was intimacy between us that no one ever knew about bout except she and I. I never had feelings for a woman until VS became a part of my life. At the time, I didn’t know that I was/ we were in love with each other. We went on like this was for nearly 10 years until our friendship dissolved.

My friendship with VS sparked something in me that I didn’t want to accept. Could I be? Nah…that’s not even possible.

23 Years Ago Today…

Today marks the 23rd year since my mother passed away. Every Feb 21st, I quietly celebrate the 15 years that I spent with my mother and I also mourn the 23 years that I have had to live without her. Before today, I have never shared with anyone my private ceremony in honor of my mother; but for some reason I felt it was time to expose that part of myself…maybe it will help someone else.

Either way, the lose of a parent is never easy. As time passes, you learn to deal with the ups and downs that you’ll experience. You learn to live and move on, but there will always be a part of you that is wounded from the loss. The wound never completely heals, but only scabs. Sometimes I pull the scab off, in order to feel the pain of the loss because I want to know that my mother was there…I want to know that she is still in the forefront of my memory…I don’t want to forget her. After 23 years I still feel her presence in my life & and I am grateful.

Rest in Peace Patricia (1949-1988)

Journey to Me: Entry #11

Entry #11 (Click here to read Entry #10)

The day that my mom died was the day that my life changed forever. I was 15 years old with no clue as to what would happen to me or my brother. All I could hear was the adults around me, making plans to bury my mother. I would look across the room and see my little brother with swollen eyes and confusion on his face. I remember calling my dad the night mom died to let him know what had happened and before I could get the words out, he told me he was on his way over…it was after 3am and he seemed to arrive at our home within minutes. My father cried like a baby in front of us all. I never knew how much he loved my mother until this day. My dad changed that day and so did I.

I heard talk of what to do with my brother and I. Who should take us? Should they separate us? What did my mother want for us? My aunt, the one with the horrible sons spoke up saying: “Trisha did not want these kids separated so we are not gonna separate them.” This was the last I heard of the custody of my brother and I until after my mother’s funeral. Days passed and I grieved in my heart for my mother, but I had this unusual peace about the whole thing. Even though I was only 15, I understood that my mother was gone because it was her time and I also understood that God was comforting me and preparing me for a greater task. That’s a lot of a 15 year old kid to truly understand…but somehow, somewhere this had been planted into my being. My tears dried up although I still wept for my mother…it was a different kind of weeping. I loved her. I would miss her but God was going to provide for me…I believed this with my whole heart.

The day of the funeral was one of great sadness. My mothers mom sat in her room and wailed like her soul had been snatched from her. You see, at this point, my mother was the first to die in our family. It was difficult for all of her brothers and sisters to deal with. I recall sitting in my grandmothers living room, watching everyone hurry themselves and prepare for the funeral that day. The loneliness that I felt was overwhelming and stifling. My little brother sat so close to me that day that I could barely move. I felt the burden of responsibility weighing down on my back…but even still, there was this calm that pushed its way forward in my spirit. I know it was God. I knew he was gonna look out for me and help me make it through that day.

We arrive and the church and its packed. I still cant believe that that’s my mother laying in that casket. Many people got up and said wonderful things about my mom. It was a beautiful service, but all I wanted was for it all to be over. Finally the services ended and we begin to file out of the church as is customary in the black church. The funeral directors lead the processional with the pall bearers carrying the casket behind them. The family then files out behind the pall-bearers while “I’ll Fly Away” is being sung by the choir. I remember losing all strength in my legs as we were walking out…if my aunt had not caught me, I would have hit the floor. We finally get into the limo and being our journey to the cemetery. The entire ride, all I remember thinking was why this was happening to me…I am 15 years old…I need my mom…Why did my mom have to die and leave us here like this. Tears streamed down my face for the entire ride. My aunts held me and my brother in their arms until we made it to our destination.

I hate cemeteries; I always have, but that day was different. My mom was gonna be living here. This is her final resting place. As we embarked on her burial location, my dad walked with my brother and I holding our hands. He stood by us the entire time of the graveside service. This was the first time that I felt like he really loved me…like he was really my father.

The three of us watched as my mothers casket was lowered into the ground…ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I cried, my father cried, my brother cried. Goodbye mama.

Aquarius.Soul © 2010

Journey to Me: Entry #8

Entry #8 (Click here to read Entry #7)

After a few years, my mother became ill. Nothing major, just a bit of this and a bit of that and she managed her illness well. My mom had always been heavy, but after she got sick, she really started to balloon up and this was another reason for me to be ashamed of her. What kid wants to have a big fat mother? I mean, who wants to be teased by their school friends when their mom comes to the school and she is a fat?

We ended up moving from the projects after about 2 years of major struggle. We didn’t move into a single family home, but into an apartment. This apartment was ok, better than the projects, but only a few steps from being a project. The best thing about all of this was that I got to have my own room again. As a young girl, privacy was of the utmost. This was my retreat from my little world. I had my own TV, a phone extension and most of all a small love seat in my room. I was big shit by 1987 standards. Things there were cool. I went to another middle school and actually got more enthused about school. My mom laid off of dudes…the only man I saw around our house was my daddy and his presence was not felt that often. Right about the same time we moved to these apartments, my mother baby sister got divorced from her husband and she and her two boys ended up moving to the same complex that we lived in. They would spend a lot of time at each others apartments, but it seemed that my aunt and her bad ass boys spent more time at our house fucking it up really. Well, let me be clear: my aunt was a loud, dirty talking woman and her boys; especially that oldest son of hers was just bad and unruly. In those days, cleaning up your house on a Saturday morning was an event. My mom would wake me every Saturday around 8am; we would have breakfast and after that we would commence to cleaning: make the beds, sweep the floors, clean the kitchen (including cleaning out the fridge), clean the bathroom, change the sheets on every bed in the house, clean the window sills, clean the baseboards that run all around the house and worst of all we had to sweep the carpets cause having a vacuum was luxury that most black folks didn’t have back then. Needless to say, cleaning up on Saturday was hard work and you didn’t want anybody to come and mess up what you had cleaned up. Now back to my cousins…those jokers would come over with their mom and fuck up the house like it was nobody’s business and the killer part is that my mom would never say anything about it. I don’t think it was because she didn’t care…it was because she felt sorry for my aunt. Nevertheless, my ass would have a lot to say about it and my mouth got me in trouble. I hated my cousins and I didn’t like my aunt to much either cause she didn’t control her damn kids…but what could I do as a kid. All I could do was retreat to my room at least I didn’t have to entertain those ugly boys in there.

This time in my life marked an age of exploration for me. This is the year were I let a boy do more than kiss me. No I did not have sex with a boy…lets just say he touched me below my waist. What the hell: they called it finger fucking back then. So yes, I got finger fucked on several occasions by this dude who we will call Oscar. He was cute and he liked me and I let him talk me into doing it. The whole act seemed a little stupid but what the hell…all my friends were doing it. My rape always loomed in the back of my mind, but at this point I just wanted to be normal…but my normalcy didn’t include having sex…being raped kept me from going there with the lil boys I played with during that time. I also played with girls during that time too. Well let’s be more specific. I have a female cousin who is a few years older than I am. She and I were really close growing up. We would spend the night with each other all the time and just watch television and play games or whatever. Then one day in particular, she asked me what I thought girls kissing. My reply was yuck! Girls aren’t supposed to kiss each other. So her response was why not. She then tells me that she saw girls kissing each other in a movie and it was no big deal. She even said that they were kissing each other on their chests. So I’m like “really” well if it was in the movies, I guess its ok. To make a long story short…my cousin and I kissed each other on the mouth and on the chest (which really means on the breasts) and after it was over, I didn’t feel repulsed like I thought I would. No big deal…I went on about my life.

Aquarius.Soul ©2009

Journey to Me: Entry #6

Entry #6 (Click Here to Read Entry #5)

I remember lying on the table getting a rape kit done. At 13, having a rape kit done is totally humiliating. I was a virgin and having to lie on a cold table, legs spread eagle with your feet in stirrups while the doctor pokes and scrapes your vagina is an awful feeling. Seems like this process of examination took forever…with each passing moment I lost a piece of who I was and who I was to become.

My life was changed forever. My outgoing spirit was gone. I had no desire to be friendly with my friends. I spent all of my time indoors except for the times that I had to go to school. I became very withdrawn and shy with no desire to really do anything. I ate a lot…trying to rid myself of the pain I felt on the inside. A few months after my rape, we moved across town attempting to leave everything I had experienced behind. My mom met another man, who we eventually moved in with. He was much nicer than that first dude and I could tell that he truly cared for my mother. A year after I had been raped, my mom took me to counseling for rape victims because she said she didn’t want me to become a recluse and never be able to deal with what happened to me. I didn’t want to go, because I didn’t want to talk about it. In my mind, I had buried that experience and didn’t want to remember anything about it. The counseling helped, but I still had this void in my spirit and to fill that void I continued to eat more than I should and I still didn’t like going outside. It took many years for me to get past my fear of going outside and it took many more years for me to learn not to bury the pain I felt with food.

As the years past I got better. Although I was never the same person…I got to the point where I could function like everyone else. My mom and her man…let’s call him Willie…they were doing well. There came a point in my teenage life that my mom told me she wanted to talk to me about something. I’m thinking that she was about to fuss or give me a whipping for something I did…but instead she took me in her bedroom and pulled a small box from under the bed. She opened the box and said this is a .38 caliber pistol that we keep in the house for protection. She went on to say that she didn’t want me or my brother messing with it, but she wanted me to know where it was just in case something happened and I needed to get it to protect myself. In my teenage mind, I’m wondering why we need a gun in the house…so of course I ask. She tells me that she and Willie sell “weed” …while she is giving me the story behind the weed, she walks over to the closet in her room and pulls out this big black trash bag and brings it over to the bed where I was sitting…She says this is how we store the weed…in these bags. She opens the bag and it full to the brim with marijuana. I was stunned, because I never thought my mom would be involved in anything like this. I ask her why she is selling weed and she says: for money…”Willie and I can provide for the family in a way that has never been done before” this is why we are selling weed. Funny as it sounds today, that was a good enough answer for me. I said ok mama and went on my way. This conversation was never brought up again and I never saw the weed or what they did with it ever again. A few years later, Willie and my mom broke up and I never saw those black trash bags again.

Aquarius.Soul ©2009

Journey to Me: Entry #5

Entry #5 (Click Here To Read Entry #4)

My mom and I had a pretty decent relationship, but I was a 13 year old girl who thought she knew it all…so we had the usual mother daughter spats and disagreements; mainly over clothes, friends and of course boys. I never have been the super girly type, and I think that’s what my mother wanted. She bought me purses and make up and all the frills that come along with becoming a budding young woman, but none of that stuff stuck. I recall a purse my mom bought me which I hated, but she made me carry it. One day in particular, I left it on the school bus just to show her. I remember my aunt telling my mama that they needed to keep and eye on me because I may turn out to be a dyke. I look back at that now and laugh…at the age of 13 I had no clue what that word even meant.

My 13th year of life was fun. We were still living in that small yellow house. It was an innocent time of playing ball in the streets, walking to school and just being a kid. All of my friends lived around me and we spent the night at each others houses all the time. Of course at 13 years old, boys come into play. I always liked boys, but never the ones that were my age; seemed to me that all the 13 year old boys were too immature for me; so I always ended up “going with” an older boy. There was this one boy that lived around the corner from me who every girl in the neighborhood wanted to be with. His name was Broderick and he rode the coolest red BMX bicycle. He had a caramel complexion and deep wavy neck length hair. Broderick of course was about 2 years older than all of us and he knew that the girls all liked him. One summer day we were all outside and it was about dusk. A storm had blew in a few days before and knocked down a fairly large tree. We all were sitting on the tree playing and talking. Beautiful Broderick comes riding around the corner on his red BMX and stops right near us. We were all talking and playing and eventually he brings up sex. At 13 I had heard of sex, but didn’t know anything about the actual act. So of course he being the older boy decides to explain it to us. Ultimately he says: sex is all about the man’s penis. All the girls cringe and giggle at this word…he then asks us if we wanted to see his, but before we could answer, he whips it out and lays it flat on the trunk of the fallen tree…all the girls start to run away laughing. This was my first penis sighting. After Broderick showed all the neighborhood girls his package, life continued as usual, except for the fact that I got to the point where I knew it all and mom and I had it out all the time….of course she would win cause back in the 80’s parents beat your ass for acting up.

One day while walking home from school with my neighborhood pals, I met this guy who lived a few streets over. He was tall, brown and lean…his name was Randolph and he was 18. He and I talked and he would meet us in the same spot everyday in order to walk me close to home. I say close to home because I knew better than to let my mom see me with this older guy. So we would kiss a few blocks away from the house and then I would make my way home with my girlfriends just like normal. I talked to Randolph all the time on the phone and tried to find a way to end up on his street as much as possible. This little love affair was short lived when my mom found out about him. You see, my mother’s aunt lived on the same street as Randolph and one day she saw he and I together…before I knew it, my mom was coming down the street with fire under her feet. No more Randolph for me, or so I thought. I still had to and from school and even though I told Randolph to leave me alone, he wouldn’t. He would be there in the mornings on our way to school and also in the evenings. It got to the point that I was becoming afraid of him….so my friends and I had Broderick and the other boys in the neighborhood to walk with us. This was the only way that he didn’t approach us. Months went by and everything seemed back to normal. One morning, I gave my mom hell about going to school. She made me go that day, but I decided that I was gonna skip school. So I take off walking in the direction that I normally go, only to turn around at the next street. Guess who I run into…Randolph.

He begins to follow me and try to talk. I talk to him as we are walking and we end up at this corner store. By this time I am about ready to go home because he was sort of creeping me out. So instead of taking my same route home, I go another way so that I would end up passing my friend’s grandmother’s house that is always at home….he follows at a distance behind me. On this street, there was a vacant wooded lot that sat between my friend’s grandma’s house and a church. As I approach the vacant lot he runs up behind me and pushes me off into the wooded lot. Not realizing what is about to happen, I didn’t scream or anything. All I did was push him and kept asking him what he was doing. He eventually pushes me down to the ground and puts his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t scream. With his other hand he rips my dress as he is trying to make his way up under it…eventually ripping my panties down the front. In order to pull his “package” out he had to remove his hand from my mouth and when he did, I screamed to the top of my lungs, hoping someone would hear me. It was 8 am in the morning and most people were at work or gone to school. He kept telling me to shut up as he tried to thrust himself into me, but I kept moving and he was having a hard time entering. He eventually got extremely angry and slapped me in my face multiple times while holding his hand on my throat. After all of his fidgeting; he finally got himself into me and began to pounce up and down. The pain was so intense that all I could do was wince and cry…I tried screaming, but nothing would come out anymore. After about 2 minutes, I heard gunshots and Randolph jumps up and runs through the wooded lot. I look up and it’s my friend’s uncle who took off from work that day. I later found out that he was in the shower, but heard a woman screaming. After Randolph ran off, I got up and started walking. The man who basically saved me from a savage rape tried to get me to stay with him while he called my mother, but something in me wouldn’t let me sit and wait. So I took off walking down the street with this torn dress and my ripped panties in my hand. As I approached my street, my mothers best friend came driving up beside me asking why I wasn’t in school and I didn’t respond…she stopped her car and got out and saw my bruised face and my torn clothes and immediately put me in her car and drove the rest of the way home. My mom opened the front door and I burst into tears.

Aquarius.Soul ©2009

Journey to Me: Entry #4

Entry #4 (Click here to read entry #3)

My parents broke up midway through my 10th year of life. As a kid, I always thought that my parents were married. After they split, I found out that they had never been married. Back in those days’ people would use the terms shacking and common law marriage as a way to describe couples who had lived together for a while and had kids. This is what my mom and dad were: common law married. When my parents split, my mother, brother and I moved in with my saved, sanctified, Holy Ghost filled church grandmother. Needless to say that this was a major culture shock. To go from having your own room and space to sleeping on the floor with a pallet was a major change. In addition to the three of us living there, my mothers 3 dead beat brothers lived there too. So in a 3 bedroom; 1 bathroom house there were 2 kids and 5 adults. Needless to say we were stuffed in there like sardines. I recall my mom and grandmother arguing very often about various things: one of the main things being my mom’s lack of church attendance and her habit of smoking. As I mentioned previously, this grandma was a church matriarch…spent 4-6 days at church for prayer meetings, revivals, and other church functions and she of course wanted us right there by her side. My mom grew up in these circumstances, but once she became and adult she vowed that she would not force her children to endure what she had endured when it came to church.

After this major change in my life, I realized that my dad was a major deadbeat, but I still loved him. I can recall my mom struggling to make ends meet. Dad hardly ever came around and when he did, he had the gall to hand out $5 to my brother and I like that would erase all the other crap that he did, but I still loved him. We eventually moved out of my grandma’s house once my mom had been approved for government housing assistance. We moved into a yellow 2 bedroom wood-frame house in a marginal neighborhood, I hated that house. It never really felt like home, but there was nothing I could do about that. As a kid I believed that things were ok. I had a lot of friends in the neighborhood and we would run and play without a care in the world. Looking back, I can see that my mom was a total rock through all of the things she endured raising my brother and I. My dad sucked for the entire decade of the 80’s. He came around when he felt like it. He never really contributed to the well being of his kids. He believed that dropping by on the weekend and taking my brother and I for a burger was acceptable. He would give my mom a hard time when she would ask him for help on bills…it was a total mess. I can recall many times where our lights got disconnected and we would have to sit in the dark with candles until mom found a way to get them reconnected. Our gas got disconnected from time to time as well…and my so called father never stepped up to help unless it was convenient for him. To this day I think that they only way he would help my mom out was if she slept with him. I recall him coming by the house and the two of them would be sitting in the living room talking about stuff and he would say to my mom: “come step into my office” meaning the bedroom…they would be in there for hours and then of course, the next day the lights would be back on.

Around the age of 13 my mom started to date this dude named John. He was a chef who on the surface seemed to be a good dude. He was nice to my brother and I and he seemed to make my mother happy. After about 6 months of dating, somehow this guy ended up living with us. I couldn’t believe this shit. Why does this dude have to stay here with us in this little ass house? Despite my pleas, he moved in anyway and within 2 months he was standing over my bed in the middle of the night looking down on me. I awakened and he put his finger up to his lips and said shhh as he began to pull my covers back. What John didn’t know was that I wasn’t about to let him crawl his nasty ass up in the bed with me. I began to scream to the top of my lungs and my mom ran to the room and caught his ass standing there with his dick out. He tried to diffuse the situation, but mama wasn’t hearing that. Back in those days, people would raise their windows and would have to put a stick of some sort under the window to keep it up. We kept our stick right in the hallway outside of my room…mama grabbed that stick and whacked John in the back of the head and threw him out in his drawers that night. From that day on, my mom was my HERO.

Aquarius.Soul © 2009

Journey to Me: Entry #1

Entry #1

I was an only child for nearly 7 years. Although I don’t really remember everything that happened during that time, I know that I held a special place in the heart of my parents and grandparents. I was fortunate not only to have my grand parents as a part of my young life, but both my paternal great grandparents were alive as well. I remember traveling via Greyhound bus to visit my great-grandparents farm out in West Texas. Just picture this little brown girl running through the fields playing and laughing without a care in the world. I remember always getting the things I wanted…we would call that “spoiled” these days. Yeah, I was spoiled mainly by my paternal grandparents. I can recall vividly an instance where my mother and my grandma were shopping in the store and my 3 year old self wanted a big wheel. I asked my mom for it and she of course said no. So I turned and asked my grandma for it and she said yes. The exchange between my grandma and I created friction between my mom and my grandma. In my 3 year old mind, I reasoned that this was the way to get the things I wanted…so I set off on my quest.

My little brother was born July 13, 1978 and I thought this was the worst thing that could have ever happened to me as a 6 year old. I didn’t like the fact that my mom was pregnant with this baby, but as soon as the baby was born, my dislike turned to extreme dislike. When my mom brought him home, he had a very light skin tone and I remember telling my mom that this was not her baby because he was too “white looking” of course the family was overcome with laughter, but I was serious-as serious as a 6 year old can be. After about a week or so, this “white looking” baby turned the color of coffee minus the cream. My little brother really didn’t change my life much. All I wanted was to remain at the center of attention and get what I wanted and my dad’s mother made sure of that. My dad’s younger brother lived with us during the early years of my life. He was such a cool dude, who I later found out was gay. He and my mother were really good friends. My uncle couldn’t resist my cute pudgy face when I asked him for things. I got life sized dollhouses from him, cash, clothes, toys…you name it, and he bought it. By now, you are probably wondering where my mother and father fit into this picture and why they let grandma and uncle spoil me un-relentlessly. Well, they were around. My mom didn’t like it at all. She would always, always voice her opinion and a lot of the times, she would take the things away from me and give them to needy kids. I can recall arguments between my parents about why mom was giving my stuff away. My mom and dad rarely fought (that I know of) but the disagreements I remember always had something to do with me and how spoiled “his” mom had made me.

As I begin to get older, I was not only spoiled, I became a bit hateful toward my brother. I would pinch him hard enough to leave bruises. My mom would whip me for this…but it did no good. I would pinch him anytime I had the opportunity; knowing that she would beat my behind. At about the age of 6 1/2, I attempted to drown my brother. Picture this: you are bathing your baby in one of those little kiddy tubs. You realize that you don’t have a washcloth, so you ask your 6 1/2 year old daughter to hold him up while you run into the bathroom to get the washcloth. You are gone all of 1.5 minutes, but when you return, you find your 6 1/2 year old has laid the baby down in the water and walked away. This is what I did to my baby brother on that fateful day. Now don’t get the picture of me being sadistic and holding the baby under 1 inch of water. Had that been the case, I’m sure mom would have put me in counseling somewhere. I really got a beating for this stunt and never did anything else bad to my brother. I was getting older; I was going to school and every day brought about the knowledge that my brother was of no consequence to me being the center of attention.

Aquarius.Soul © 2009