I had dreams of being free and someday having my store of gifts and flowers. In my store, I would love to carry all the handmade bears and dolls I see these wonderful bloggers make. My other dream is to own a cottage have it decorated in the shabby-chic style that I love so much and to have my story published of my childhood and how I survived. I want to help others who have been through what I have been through, and teach them to not marry an abusive man Here’s part of my story. Some of you have already read this and are probably sick of seeing it, but I’m hoping for a miracle of a ghost writer might help me, I am not a writer
I want to have a book published to help others who have been through what I have been through, but I’m not a writer; I need a ghost writer to help me. Here is just part of it, this was edited by a friend.
The memories of my childhood are not of candy and toys but of bogeymen and monsters. The bogeymen in my life were my parents, the same parents who were suppose to protect you.
I was born March 10, 1964, the first day of my hell. My earliest memories are of me crying in a dark room. This room was mine and my sister’s bedroom. All that was in the dark room was an old, rusted, iron bed with no mattress.
The dark room had a window, just one, but it was boarded up. Sometimes we couldn’t even tell if it was day or night. Neither of us really knew why they boarded it up; but we had out ideas … Maybe our parents thought we could call for help or may by they just didn’t want the neighbors to hear the hell that was going on inside.
My sister and I slept on the floor, tied to the bed. We slept in just our underwear, it was the only thing we were allowed to wear. My sister was tied to the foot of the bed opposite me, while I was tied at the headboard.
There were no blankets or toys in our room. We were not even allowed to go to the bathroom since our parents kept the door locked.
Our parents slept all day and stayed up all night. When our mother woke up, she would come in our room with a bucket full of Pine Sol. It was for me to clean the floor with since we had nowhere else to go to the bathroom.
The Pine Sol would nauseate me it was so strong and I would end up puking in the bucket. Whenever this happened, I would have to empty the bucket and get a new one.
While I cleaned, my mother would kick me, telling me I couldn’t do anything right.
After the floor was clean, I would have to clean my and my sister’s underwear in the bathtub. When our one piece of clothing was clean, I would have to help my mother in the kitchen.
I remember one night I had dropped my father’s dinner on the floor; I can still remember the searing pain as my mother grabbed my hand and in her anger put it on the hot burner. Then came the screaming, I couldn’t help it. The pain was too much for me to take, but I had to shush myself quickly, or else Mother told me should would give me something to cry about. I had to clean up the mess and when I was finished, she dragged me back into the dark room.
Mother didn’t give us dinner that night, but that wasn’t anything new. We rarely had dinner and when we did, it barely counted. It was a piece of bread and a glass of water, if we were lucky.
I remember Mother tying me back up, and then gagging me because I wouldn’t stop crying. Sister and I were not allowed to talk. If we did, they would gag us.
During the day, when our parents were asleep, sister and I would smell food being cooked outside. Sometimes we would pretend we were at a picnic, eating all the wonderful food.
Since we didn’t have any other real friends, my sister and I would share our imaginary food with our imaginary friends. Imagining a life outside of this dark room … out of this hell.
We never ate or watched TV with our parents. My father believed we should earn our keep. He told us that we were lucky to have a roof over our heads, and that the government was paying him to keep us. Our father got social-security checks because he was disabled from a heart attack and other health problems.
When we were allowed to speak, we had to respond with “Yes Sir,” and “No Sir,” and when they called us, we had to stand straight up, like in the military. We weren’t allowed to speak much anyways, unless we were spoken to.
After dinner, mother would come and get me from the dark room and stand me on a chair just so I could do the dishes. After I finished the dishes, Father would inspect them. If he found so much as a tiny spot, I would have to clean all of the dishes over again, including the dishes that were in the cabinet.
I can remember cleaning the bathroom with a toothbrush and everything had to be spotless; if Father found anything out of place, he would force me to grab my ankles and then strap me. Then I’d have to clean the bathroom all over again.
My father believed he was teaching me the ways of the world, telling me that “It’s hard out there, and nothing is given to you.”
I was jolted awake once by my Father burning me with his cigarette. I must have fallen asleep cleaning the bathroom, since I was still on the floor when he yanked me up by my hair and made me grab my ankles.
He would use the strap until big, painful welts would appear.
When he was done, he told me to go change the sheets on his and my mother’s bed. They had to be done a certain way, the way he was taught to do them when he was in the Army. He would take a quarter and bounce it off the bed. If it did not bounce just the right way, it was wrong and would have to be redone again and again until he was satisfied with the way it bounced.
Since my parents didn’t want to spend money on laundry, they make me do the whole family’s clothes in the bathtub.
All theses things had to be done every night. That was my life, how I was forced to live. I was only five.