Think about a sunny morning, circa April 1997. (I really have no clue whether it was sunny or not. But I like to think it was sunny.) While the rest of the world was out grabbling an early lunch or late breakfast, a child was being born. (Well, I’m sure a lot of them were being born.) As me, Screaming Newborn Edition, was being born, a story started to unravel. A long, complicated, story. The story, in truth, had started a long time before I was born. I was a nice new character. I brought hope into the lives of my siblings. (Really. This is not just a delusion of grandeur.) Allow me to ellaborate:
If you had an abusive mother, and a new child was brought into your family, wouldn’t you feel a little safer? My siblings, I’m guessing, figured the new child (Precious little Alexandria Jade Morse) would distract the mother away from the other children. I’m not sure if they thought that, but that’s how my brain would have sorted things out. Picture it: Three children, broken beyond help. 9-year-old Michael, 13-year-old Adam, 14-year-old Amber. They’d been beaten, watched their mother drink herself sick, called names such as “worthless,” “hopeless,” “stupid.” It’s as if when I was born, there were angels singing and a beam of light shining out of my butt. (I always knew I should have been named Hope.)
If they had hoped my birth would help, they were wrong. They weren’t so much beaten senseless anymore, more like neglected. Amber all but adopted me as her own child. She knew my mom couldn’t take care of me properly.
In one of my mother’s drunken stupors, she was carrying me (picture Ali: Six Months Old Edition). Woopsy. We lived in a duplex in Broken Arrow. Not too big of a place. This isn’t looking like a good idea already. Now, when she decided to carry me down the hallway, that’s when my sister stepped in. Some soft spots were definitely bumped a little hard. My sister called our aunt (who lived in Houston, and still does) and she drove all the way here to save me. Super awesome aunt? I think so. It was the middle of the night, no less. Long story short, she got caught, we got taken away from her, I don’t know her. Motherless is my disease, God is the medicine.
Why am I telling you this? Because if you don’t know my backstory, you can’t understand my current conditions.
I don’t tell most people about her; I try to stay away from the pitying “poor girl” looks. Well, I thought it was about time to speak up.
This is my life: shaken, not stirred.