The unhappy result of a shotgun wedding in about 1976.
My mother, a vindictive drug-addict slut (8/19/00) - Lori, Michigan, Age 23
My parents divorced when I was 2 years old (my mother was pregnant with me when they married). After the divorce my mother, a vindictive drug-addict slut,
kicked my father out of the house with little more than the clothes on his back, and then hit him with $500 a month child support payments (in the early 80's). Then,
after every raise or new job my father got from that point forward, my mother would petition the courts for MORE child support money. This so financially
destroyed my father that he had to quit college and move in with his parents for the next sixteen years.
From the very beginning my mother had no use for me, and I never saw one dime of this child support money. I didn't even have a bed. I instead slept on a pile of
filthy blankets in the corner of the spare bedroom, which I was occasionally forced to share with my mother's drug-addict buddies when they were too stoned to go
home.
Occasionally I would be shuttled off to my grandparent's house when my mother wanted to stash me someplace. My grandfather began molesting me at age three,
and my grandmother, a delusional religious fanatic, was scarcely aware of my presence. One day, when I was six, my mother simply never returned after leaving me
with them, and that is where I lived for the next ten years. My grandfather's molestation continued on an ever increasing scale, and at age twelve developed into full
incest.
My grandfather began controlling my every move. I was never allowed to have friends or any form of social activity. He would even pick me up from school to
make sure I came straight home. I could not get away from him. Once he caught me trying to sneak out of the house on a Friday night, and he beat me so badly
that I he wouldn't let me out of the house for five days until the swelling went down.
At age 15 my grandmother died, and my grandfather followed suit a year later, so I was forced to move back in with my mother again (whom I was still legally living
with, as she was still collecting child support). My mother by this time had had another child, a 4 year old son who's father was serving time for raping a retarded
woman. The single nicest thing my grandfather ever did for me (other than dying) was to put me in his will. In fact, he left me everything. My mother immediately
hired a lawyer to contest the will, all the time pawning off anything not nailed down in the house. The house itself was still in probate two years later.
I was forced to live with my mother for a further two years. By this time her drug habit had abated and she was dedicated to being a "good" mother to her son, who
was both retarded and hyperactive and by age four could curse like a sailor. She more than amply demonstrated her new maternal skills two weeks after my
eighteenth birthday. On that day she received notice that the child support money had finally run out, and I was deposited on the street with little more than what I
was wearing. I wasn't even permitted to pack a suitcase, since all my clothes (and the suitcase itself for that matter) were purchased with "her" money.
After leaving my mother I bounced around between friend's houses (I actually had a few by this point) and got involved in an abusive relationship. I moved in with
him, and after eight months I learned I was pregnant. When he found out he accused me of deliberately planning it, and gave me perhaps the worst beating of my
life, paying particular attention to my stomach to induce a forced miscarriage. Miraculously, the baby survived, but within a few weeks he disappeared leaving me
with little more than a few broken ribs and a pile of unpaid bills.
By the time my baby was born I was homeless, and I gave my baby up for adoption right from birth. I never did learn if it was a boy or a girl. I loved my baby
dearly and think about it constantly, but gave it up for it's own good, not mine. My baby was probably the only thing that kept me from becoming a drug addict,
which I promptly took up right after its birth.
For the past two years I've worked various jobs, prostitution being one of them, to support my drug habit. I no longer care if I live or die. I'm secretly hoping that
one of my "clients" turns out to be a psychopathic serial killer who will end my miserable life in a gruesome, yet public way. At least that way my name will
occasionally appear on cheesy documentaries and true crime books instead of sinking into total oblivion.
Unlike most people in my position, I do not hate myself, which is a miracle considering all of the abuse I've received. However, I no longer feel life to be worth
living. I have long abandoned all hope of happiness, not that I would even recognize it if I saw it. I feel I am already dead, and to mourn me would be a waste of
tears. However, somewhere out there is a 2-year-old happy, bouncing baby child that I carried in my body for nine months, and I just want to say for the record, "I
love you". |
