I watched the Netflix movie The Dirt a couple of days ago, and there was a part that reminded me of my own life. See, it sounds ridiculous to compare my life to that of Nikki Sixx, cause well, it's not even near close, but there was a scene where he was explaining parts of his childhood. His mother begins to blame him for his father leaving. He shouts back, "I was two years old you bitch! He left you!" And she asks why he never tried to call, if that were true. I nearly started crying at that scene. Why, you ask? Because I remember essentially that exact scene playing out between me and my mother. Well, now I'm 27, and I still think about that more often than is probably healthy. I was young when that happened, about 13. It stayed with me. Guess you got what you wanted, mom.
So, why am I writing a myTake based on this revelation?
I couldn't tell you. I honestly couldn't, but I feel it's important. Maybe somebody out there needs to hear this from someone else, needs to see that someone else understands. I'm drunk enough to admit things right now, so that's what I'll do. I'll tell you all about young Stephanie.
My childhood was not exactly that of television's representations. My stepfather was a pastor, a holy father. I was forced to act as though he was my real father. I called him dad. Or, sometimes, on those days when he felt I needed some real special punishment, I called him daddy. Perhaps this is why I don't have a daddy kink, unlike most of my female friends.
Daddy dearest's methods of punishment were quite normal to me. The beatings, spankings, molestations, rapings, were a regular part of my routine. I assumed this was how every household worked for quite a while. I thought it was everyone, not just me, walking around school hiding their bruises, cuts, vulnerabilities. Boy, was I in for a shock once I hit that sixth grade locker room. I walked in, set my things down, and began to change.
"Holy fuck! Look at Stephanie's back!"
"What, do you do this for attention?"
"We all know it's fake, you loser."
I was confused, to say the least. I looked at the girls staring at me, puzzled.
"What?"
They raised their eyebrows. I took a look around the locker room. All these girls had single-shade skin, no evidence of injury to be seen. Fuck. Was I really the only one? And now they thought this was fake? That I was some kind of attention whore?
I pulled on my shorts and got the hell out of that locker room. I grabbed my bag and hauled ass out of school, through the gym. Now the girls were in here too, and they were telling anything with ears about those marks. That, ladies and gentlemen, was the first time I skipped school.
For the rest of my school years, I made sure I was separate from everyone else when I changed for gym.
The next obstacle I'll detail was when I was about 14. My siblings had started school and all, and my stepdad wouldn't get them everything they needed. It was okay until my little sister lost a box of crayons. Dad would be punishing her in an instant if he found out, and he did a check of school things every day. Homework, notes, supplies were examined. I had no money, nor did they, so I went down to Carl's market. Carl was this really nasty guy in my town who all the kids reguarded as Creepy Carl. He just gave off a vibe.
I made sure to be discreet about it and avoid cameras as I walked down the aisles looking for the supplies they needed. I put the crayons in my pocket and continued looking- and then Carl grabbed my arm and dragged me back into his office. He said that he would keep this quiet from my stepfather, but he had to instill his own punishment. He bent me over his desk and raped me- the painful way. Now, this was not my first experience with un-lubed anal, but that shit hurts like hell. Of course, he kept the supplies and threatened me that if I didn't keep quiet about this, there would be consequences... while keeping his hand on the gun behind the desk.
I walked home with no supplies except the crayons, which I had grabbed again without him seeing. At least my sis wasn't in trouble.
Of course, a couple weeks later, word got back to my stepfather that I had attempted shoplifting. There was punishment that night. It was one of the many times I came near death from his beatings. I had broken bones, but couldn't get treatment.
As I went through school, I got a bit worse. I got into fights, got detentions, skipped classes. There was no real harm there, considering punishment was not exactly avoidable in any case.
When I was 15, I got my first boyfriend. I'd been best friends with him the last few years. We met when we were pretty young, but he'd moved away for a few years, and as soon as he came back, we were close again. It became less and less platonic as time went on, and it developed into a romantic thing. This was around the time they found out I was being abused. At my insistence, they too kept quiet; Nobody in that little bible town would have believed for a second that the pastor was anything but a noble man of the lord.
When I was 17, my boyfriend up and left. No warning, no call, no phone number left behind, nothing. It reminded me of my father and I was bitter for a bit- then I was just sad. Heartbroken, really. He was the only thing that had kept me somewhat stable through a lot of what my stepfather put me through.
I saved up a bit of money and gave some to my siblings, trying to help as much as was possible. I told them they could call me with anything, I told them I would go back for them if anything happened, and I packed up and took a greyhound out of that shithole.
Those memories still wake me up in the middle of the night, screaming, crying, having a full-blown panic attack unless there's someone there who can calm me down. That's my baggage.
Everyone has baggage. It's not all the same, but it's all substantial. It shapes people, it makes them who they are.
Point is, while baggage and past memories and all that shit hurt, it makes us all unique, it makes us all human, and the world would be shitlessly boring without this kind of thing. I don't think I should hide it away as much as I do, and that goes for everyone. If you hide it less, it effects you less.
Let your past shape you, but don't let it become you.
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