I Guess I Can't Start Anew, Story Of My Life

I wanted to start a new entry, but all this would allow me to do was edit my old one.  I guess that's life right?  You can't really start fresh, just sort of rebuild on the crumbled yesterday's of your existence.  I don't know how long I can make this, I don't know where this is going to take me.  Or you.  I imagine on a rabbit hole journey of my life.  One where I grow, I shrink, I lose time and I lose hope.  One where I face the Queen, where I stand up tall.  And in the next breath I'm falling down a tunnel full of spinning dials.  Are you with me?  Time to take the leap.


I was born 11 days late.  My due date was July 1st.  Canada Day.  To date it is still my favorite celebration (tied with Halloween) for reasons not related to my expected birth.  My mum said it wasn't her worst labour out of her four children.  I was her first C-section though.  As she so eloquently puts it "You saw the light and did a flip and sat on it!  You weren't coming out regardless of wether it was time or not".


I was the third in a list of four.  There are seven years seperating my brother and I, we are the middle children.  A total of ten years spans between the oldest sibling and the youngest sibling.  My siblings have a multitude of fathers.  My oldest sibling, 'A', was concieved at a party, with one of my mum's ex boyfriends.  Who admitted to being married the next morning (they hadn't seen each other in about five years) and when my mum turned up pregnant he pulled a powder.  My brother, K, came out of my mum's first marriage.  She married the man not because she loved him, but because her step father told her she couldn't.  He beat her.  But the first time he laid hands on the kids she put a cinder brick through his windsheild and left.  Then along came her second husband.  Many years later.  C (the youngest daughter) and I came out of that union.  He passed away when I was 7 years old.  That's a story for another paragraph though. 


A and K were never treated like anything other than my father's children.  He loved them and doted on them.  Even as they grew and A became uncontrollable.  He would get up at two in the morning and drive accross town to pull her out of a party she had no bussiness being at.  To save her from some group of girls who wanted to beat her up.  To stop some older boy who had no idea of her real age from making a crime out of his night out.  He would bring her home, get her a cup of coffee, see her to bed and go back to sleep himself.  Getting up in a few short hours to go to work to support his family.  But for some reason A always held tight to the belief that when I was born he stopped loving her.  She saw me as a threat.  Something that was taking away her father.  Something that had to be eliminated one way or another.


Granted, I was my dad's (I say my and not our because in a tale with several father's it's easier to distinguish them this way) first baby.  He had met our mother when A and K were four and five.  So he was smitten.  He held me like a jewel, terrified that the slightest bump could harm me, that a nibble on food to hot would cause irreperable damage.  Our mom said he treated me like a porcelin doll, cradling me so gently....his kisses softer then butterfly feet so that he wouldn't hurt me.  A took all of this as a sign that his love had transferred to me.  By the time C came around two and a half years later it didn't matter.  I already had all of my dad's love.  She was no threat, she was the baby granted, but I was always the target of A's anger. 


None of A's anger came to full front until seven years after I was born.  She was always aloft.  Never wanting to be near me unless to torment me.  When I was six she and a group of friends cornered me and forced me to take a drag on a cigarette.  I threw up and she and her friends surrounded me, pointing and laughing.  I will say I have never smoked, so I guess I owe her that.  She would whisper nasty things in my ear as she walked past me in the hall.  My favorite toys would turn up broken or go missing, and while I never had proof, I was sure A was the one doing that as well. 


When I was 7 and A was 14 she went to a party.  One where she didn't call my dad to come get her, and some boy spent time in prison for a mistake.  He wasn't the only one with life long consequences from that night.  A lost her virginity and got pregnant all in one fell swoop.  I was young but I can remember the conversation in the kitchen.  I lay awake in my bed, at the top of the stairs, and listened to my mom and dad talk.  The anger in my dad's voice that slowly fell into sorrow and dissapointment.  The fury that my mum could barely stop from yelling.  The final decision that A was having the baby.  She could give it up for adoption, or keep it and they would help.  But she could not abort.  Her idiocy had resulted in an innocent life and my parents would not allow her to kill that. 


My dad took a job driving a semi for my uncle when A became pregnant.  More money.  He was gone for days at a time.  I hated it.  I had always been a daddy's girl and when he would leave my heart would pause until he returned.  A was about six months pregnant and my dad had been getting ready to leave for a trip.  I don't remember what they were fighting about, it was all they did around that time, but A had started screaming at him.  She had screamed "I HATE YOU AND I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!" as he went out to load his suitcase.  I followed him, begging him not to go, sobbing that he wasn't coming back.  Devestated.  The last time I saw my dad is burned in my brain.  He got down on one knee, he brushed my tears away and smiled.  He told me he loved me more than anything and that he would be back in a few days.  In fact he would bring me home that beach Barbie I had been coveting for months, and that I was not to worry.  He would see me again.  Then he got in the car and drove off.


It was just a few short days later when we were all called home from school.  It was stange because our mom was in school to become a chef hours away.  We were staying with sitters and friends that week.  Why would we need to go home?  It only took a few short seconds for A and K to realize what was going on and they both took off.  I was seven, C was five.  It took us a bit longer.  C crawled under the table and started sobbing.  I told the aunt who had broken the news to us that I was fine, that she needed to let me be, and then I crawled under the table too.  I took C in my arms and we both sat there sobbing for the next three hours until our mum got home.


I'll continue this tomorrow.  If you haven't been lost in my land of crazy....just wait.   It get's crazier.

User Comments

Stay strong! You're working through a lot of pain, but I'm glad you were able to share your story with us. You deserve a place where people will listen, understand, and not judge you. I hope that the sharing of your story was helpful to you. 

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