This is a true story of how my love of writing became. Through mental child abuse a love of writing became.This is a story everyone needs to read.
Walk with me if you will. A young child sitting in the corner behind a chair. She has her hands over her ears rocking back and forth on her knees. She just wants the music to stop. The Old Rugged Cross is blaring on her mother's record player. A song she has heard a hundred times over. She desperately tries to take her self away.
She has done this a thousand times over. In just a blink. She can take herself to far away places. She can be with a family that loves each other. A family at dinner. Talking about their day. Talking until there is nothing else to say. Or maybe to her fairy tale world where she's a princess in the Butterfly World where everything is cotton candy and lace clouds.
But, not on this day. For some reason she can not take herself away. She tries and tries but nothing happens. So she just sits there and rocks covering her ears. Suddenly, she realizes something is not right. The music has stopped. She rises and walks around the chair.
She carefully listens for her mother in the cabinets finding her new bottle. But, she hears nothing.
She goes to her mother's door. She places her small hand apon the door and quickly releases it. A fear has taken ahold of her. She does not understand this. She looks at her feet and wipes her hands on her pants. She takes a deep breath and once again places her hand on the door knob.
Slowly, she opens the door. What she see's, no child should ever have to see. There is blood everywhere. On the walls behind her mother's bed. On the floor. Her mother is lying there,her arms, laying over the bed. She goes and tries to awaken her mother. She steps back
looking at her. For an instant she thinks how beautiful her mother looks. The tenseness, that she is so use to seeing is gone. She looks so peaceful. So angelic.
She backs up and looks at her hands. They are covered with blood. She quickly wipes them on her shirt that is already covered with blood
from laying over her mother trying to awaken her. She suddenly see's all the blood and panics. She stares at her hands and rapidly wipes them over her clothes.
She runs, out of the house and onto the street. She is screaming, "someone has hurt my mother." She runs and runs screaming. A black gentleman, hearing her, runs and catches her. He ask, "Who, has hurt you child?" She can no longer answer . He grabs her. "Tell me child,how can I help you?" By this time another man has pulled his car aside and ran to this child. They tried to get me to get into thier car and ride but I refused. They slowly drove behind me as I led them to my house.
Once entering they knew what had happened. My mother had taken a box cutter and slit her wrist so savaginly that the blood had spattered everywhere. They had gotten the name of my aunt and called her. She came and got me and could not wait to give me back as soon as my mother recovered and was released from the mental instituition.
My mother tried this 4 more times and when I was 16, I finally moved out. I got my own apartment and my job as a weaver in a textile company. I had little furniture and no luxuries. It was 3 months before I realized that I could come home and close my door and just be me.
I made peace with that child many years ago. I realized that a silver lining does come from every cloud however. My love for writiing and my imagination for just going to another world and wriiting a thriller. Many different things stopped my love of writing. Then at 53, I realized that I had to do my book of many books I had written. I had to prove to myself that my childhood was not in vain, So I sent in the book
FORE-WARNED. And was delighted when it was picked up.
You can visit my site at freewebs.com/blessedbeps to get a better feel of my book and me. I am now working on my next novel that is more me. A complete horror with my evil mind.
Well, now you know me. All of me. I hope you enjoy my books. I hope if you are out there and can identiify with me that you will take your
downfalls in life and turn them into benifits. No matter what your artisic ability is just do it. Paint, write, sing, dance, or just be you. Nothing can not be over come if you just live for every day. Live to be, and live to know you are here and you are special in your own way.
The power to be is only what you make it.
AND ABOVE ALL KEEP YOUR DREAMS ALIVE.
If you find errors in this please excuse them. Even though I am 53 it still takes a huge toll on me to write this. Even now when I surface these memories I tend to have a few nightmares. So I do not do alot of rereading.
Thank You for reading this and getting to know me.
I only hope that by writing this it will help someone else to get the courage to become all that they are meant to be.
Please visit my website.
http.www.freewebs.com/blessedbeps
Your always welcome there.
And if you have a similar life experience please contact me at
Heartbreak, in effectively penned lines - but yet, courage, too, because you survived. Your words are born from experience, and yet written so that the cycle of abuse ends with you - to save others from the same horror you endured. Excellently penned.
(((HUGS))) love and prayer, karla.
Reviewed by Mark Chevalier
3/12/2008
Wow, you are a woman of exceptional strength and character to have survived that. And now to use your emotions to enable your gift for writing is even more fantastic. My own deep seated motivations come from a similar set of circumstances, although I haven’t found anyone to pick me up yet. I still hold out the hope that someday I might. It took a lot for you to share that story. I don’t know if I would have possessed the strength to tell my own tale.
Mark D. Chevalier
Reviewed by mary tsehaye
10/9/2007
It is a touching story.One that comes from the heart and that's what makes me read it over and over again.You have motivated me Patricia.
I think many of us become writers due to wanting to "escape" such tragedies.
My mother tried to commit suicide by stabbing herself in the stomach with a butcher knife when I was 9 years old... and I was blamed for it my entire life. Still am 20 years later. All because I wanted to live with my father.
I definitely feel you.
Wish I could say I didn't.
Join me as we travel together on the road called "Aging." I will be sharing my personal experiences with you and offer ideas on how we can better navigate the complex byways of our older years. Grief, healing, generations, ancestors, and more.
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