My mother has prevented me from telling the rest. Over 20 years dead, and she still stops my voice. I was born and raised on secrets and lies, and I find that even thinking of mama makes my words catch in my throat. I'm sorry Mama.
I was laying in the back of a big rig semi, somewhere outside of New Orleans. My father was driving, listening to cowboy music, CB radio static in the background. A razor is held to my wrists and I am contemplating ending my life. Silent tears stream down my face, tears of pain and confusion and guilt and anger and despair. I'm trapped, and there is nothing I can do. I truly don't want to live anymore. I want it all to stop... but my death would kill my mother and that is all.
I'm so frightened, and I just want to get away. At a truck stop near New Orleans, I meet two young men. In a last ditch effort, I tell them what has happened, or as near to the truth as I can get. I ask them to take me with them, and get me away from him. They go to his truck to confront him... I do not know what happened, but my stepfather had a gun. When he came inside to get me, he was smiling at me - laughing at me really. He told me to get in the truck. My hero's were no where to be seen.
The ride back to Wisconsin was agonizing. He kept telling me that he had made me a woman. He didn't know that a short weak before, knowing what was coming, I had taken care of that myself - I was not giving that bastard my virginity. I am still so proud of myself for that - to this day, I praise the little girl who did that... who purposefully sought out a soft and gentle lover and seduced him. Good on her.
I think he believed me when I said I would kill myself. He was kinder for a while. He left me alone. The visits to my room stopped for a while and from the outside, I looked like a normal girl. A very unhappy normal girl, but truthfully - somehow no one noticed this.
I tried so desperately to get help. My IQ tested high, but I was failing all my classes. I visited the counseling office almost daily - but it was simply pointless.
In the meantime, over the summer, I had had my first real boyfriend. Because I needed to lose my virginity, I threw him over for the man I chose to take care of this monumental business, and I broke his heart. His sister took revenge for him, spreading rumours that I was the worlds biggest slut - little boys, needing something to brag about on their lunch hour or in the locker room, claimed me for that honor. With a couple of rapes and one real lover, I was the scarlet girl. I was attacked and beaten regularly - and I think, to be honest, I agreed in part to their assesment of me. The only boys who would look at me were the ones who thought I would put out... my role in the world was set.
There were saving graces... I became involved in theatre and speech... for brief moments I could escape and be someone else. Being so constantly under control, repressing my emotions and thoughts all the time, gave me a resovoir of pent up passions when I hit the stage. I was good... I worked hard. I competed in forensics, and I won awards. Approprately enough, my selection for that year was from "A Streetcar Named Desire" -
And I met a boy. His name was John, and how I loved him. I love him to this day. His mother was a pastor, he lived on a farm far away - so he knew nothing of the scandal surrounding me. He was chubby and funny and smart, and he loved me too. As long as he loved me, the misery that was my life didn't matter. My shame didn't matter. My mothers hatred of me didn't matter. My John loved me, and his love would save me.
I moved to a new school, and though my reputation followed me, it was a fresh start. I became a cheerleader, hoping this would improve my social standing. I began to meet people who went to college, and began seeing that there would be a life after - if I could make it through high school, and get out of Kenosha, there would be a better life waiting for me.
My love for John was as passionate as only a 16 year old girls love can be. I taught him how to make love to me, rough and hard and the way I needed it. He would hold me after, declaring his love, and I felt safe. I would write him love letters, long explict sexual romantic love letters.
Which were, unbeknowst to me, being removed from the mailbox, and kept by my stepfather.
The next autum, he began to blackmail me. I attacked him, scratching his face. He laughed at me, telling me if I was going to be a whore for some 16 year old boy, I could damn well be a whore for him. He told me that if my mother saw these letters, I would never see John again.
The nightime visits recommenced. I fought him off. I locked the door. Each night he was home, I would lay awake, waiting for him to rattle the doorknob. Once he went away, I could sleep.
I turned to my brothers, one after the other for help. I was not explicit... I said he was trying to touch me. They each, in turn, called me a liar.
After several months, I was desperate. While babysitting one night, I called a suicide prevention line. I talked to Alan. I told the story - leaving out, or so I thought all details. Kenosha is a small town. There was only one private Lutheran school. The very next Monday, the sheriffs department came to speak with me.
Still, I denied the rape. I said only that he was touching me. I begged them, please, to not talk to him with my mother there... to please just talk to him alone. I called them on the phone when I knew he would be there without my mother...
I returned home after cheerleading practice. My mother and stepfather were sitting at the kitchen table. My love letters to John were spread out in front of him, and his eyes looked wet from crying. Together they confronted me. Why did I want to end their marriage, what kind of monster was I to say such things? My stepfather broke down into tears, looked at my mother helplessly, and said "How could she do this to me?" My mother stood up, called me a whore, and backhanded me so hard that I fell to the floor. She stormed out of the room in tears.
When I stood up, my stepfather laughed at me, a triumphant smile on his face.
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