How Come?

And why was I chosen for this torment and pain? Was I a terrible person in another life? Did I abuse my loved ones and make them cry?

Did I?

If that be the case, I’ve learned my lesson. I’m sorry for my bad deeds. Now can I have a better future?

Can I?

Some folks might say “karma” and I do believe in karma, but nothing I’ve done in this life time warrants what I am forced to deal with day in and day out.

How come I wasn’t given a storybook life? How come I didn’t grow up on a farm with six brothers and sisters who all loved each other? How come I didn’t meet Prince Charming on his white horse?

Why not?

Or how come I didn’t become a country western singer at the tender age of thirteen, and go on to become America’s Idol? Or a doctor? How come my daddy didn’t walk me down the aisle to meet the man I would marry and spend the rest of my life with? How come my daddy took his own life before he would turn thirty, leaving me with a mother who couldn’t get herself out of bed each day, let alone encourage her children to have dreams and fulfill them?

How come?

And why could I never open the doors that kept me locked inside, while my mother was “sleeping”? Why were the door knobs so slippery that when I tried to escape from my stepfather’s filthy hands I could not turn them to release me from his evil plans? Why did he put vaseline on the door knobs? Did he know how it would mess with me for my entire life, that I would always wonder if I couldn’t open the doors to escape because I didn’t want to, as my mother would say later. Did he think I wouldn’t someday realize it was Vaseline—did he think I was that stupid?

Why did he?

How come she married that son of a bitch who molested me from when I was a small child until I was fifteen and wrote in my journal how much I hated him? And how come my mother called me a lil whore, turned her back on me and let that son of a bitch stay in our home? How come she went to counseling and that counselor never said to her, “Maybe you should bring your daughter, who was molested by your husband”?

Why didn’t she?

And how could she just let me go, at fifteen? Just don’t be home alone with him. If he is home, you go somewhere else, anywhere—she never asked where that would be. She put it all on me—if I don’t put myself in the position to be alone with the monster she thought she loved, then I wouldn’t be hurt. All of a sudden, he was my problem. Why didn’t I take that gun off the wall in our hallway, walk into their bedroom while they slept, as he would do to me standing over me with his rope undone, touching himself in a way that made me want to puke? Why didn’t I violate him, only instead of touching myself standing over him, I should have taken that gun and blew his manhood into another zip code.

Why didn’t I?

And how come it became my fault? How come she would blame me for the rest of my life for her marriage failing? And how come to this day she doesn’t understand why I hate her?

How come?