Peeing, homeless style

I’ve Got an Elastic Heart

To be honest, every person who has ever been close to me I expect to leave. It’s almost like a ticking time bomb in my life. In fact, I don’t have any friends, actually I have one. I had two but one recently said they didn’t want me in their life anymore. I don’t blame them, I wouldn’t want me in my life either.

I’m bipolar and OCD and I know it’s only a matter of time when I have an episode and that’s it. They leave. Like a poem from Edgar Allen Poe I’m exposed and I’m cellophane. I try to hide my illness but my tale-tell heart beats too loudly.

I’ve never fit in anywhere. In high school I would have a few friends in different social groups but I never belonged to a particular one. I would dress as a hippie so all groups would accept me but It’s amazing how if you present yourself in one specific manner the way society will treat you. I was Nicole, but ‘hippie’ Nicole was cool and carefree. She wasn’t racist or judgmental. That was my favorite. I loved that black people accepted me as much as a white person. When I had my dreads I was hit on by so many types of men I didn’t know what to do. I almost wanted to tell them I had ten kids just so they would leave me alone. When I shaved the sides of my hair and I had a Mohawk, black men were following me everywhere. I felt confident and in control. It was so empowering. I felt like a badass mama men wanted me to punish.

It’s crazy how much a hair cut can change you.

Me with a Mohawk

Me with dreads

You be the judge of who you think I am.

Don’t Be Like Gabby

My mom and John had two children of their own when I was in high school. They were too young to remember me so all they’ve ever known is ‘Gabby the adult’. When my first husband and I were married, I was nineteen.

Interestedly enough, less than a year after my mother kicked me out when I was in high school because “it was me or John,” she divorced John because he lost all his money and he had subsequently put her in debt. She filed for bankruptcy and rented a very nice home eventually buying one of her own.

Meanwhile, John moved from home-to-home unable to pay his bills or child support and was also arrested for DUI. John is a master con artist. He goes to upscale bars and picks up women who have an unreasonable amount of alimony and swoon them until they invite him into their homes to live with them Scott free. It usually takes several years before eventually they see through his sociopathic tendencies and let him go.

One time, I remember my brother commenting, “Dad doesn’t have any money.” To which his bourgeoisie girlfriend replied, “Yeah, I wish I had known that while we were dating.”

Burn.

Lets face it, F. Scott Fitzgerald said it perfectly in, The Great Gatsby, “Rich girls don’t marry poor boys.” John’s mother is a descendant of English royal blood. Her father moved to Canada and was a nobleman of some sort. John’s mother grew up in a boarding school and it was well known that her mother was… how do you say… loved to party. If fact, not all of John’s mother’s siblings are from her father.

Don’t worry, I’m not here to judge, but this plays an important part in several stories of my life to which I have yet to tell. See, I have several deep family secrets of my own. What has always amazed me is the way the wealthy hide their secrets. Anything to protect the family name. Me, I don’t care. Yes, it took me years to open up about my sexual abuse, but am I ashamed? No! That was not my fault. That is on my abuser.

So why should you not be like Gabby?

Over several years my second husband had also (even worst than the first) beaten me, kicked me, raped me multiple times and used my sexual abuse history as a way of manipulating me. I remember one time, I looked in the mirror and I had bruises going all the way down my back and onto my legs. It was so painful just to lie down to sleep at night. I couldn’t sleep for over a week because it was so painful for my body to have any sort of pressure against it.

In December of 2017, I had finally had enough. I packed a suit case and told him, “I’m leaving you.” It was late at night and unusually cold for an Atlanta winter. I walked back into the bedroom to get my phone when he came barreling in, shut the door, locked it, and blocked the door not allowing me to leave. We argued back and forth until he pushed me onto the bed and pressed his body on top of mine and started rubbing his hands up and down my breast and in between my thighs. It immediately brought me back to the days my molestation. He had the same look in his eyes as they all did. I own you. You’re mine. I will have your pussy.

I started screaming for my oldest son to find something to unlock the door so I could be freed. “I cant find anything!” He shouted from the other side.

“Call the police!!!”

“Where’s you’re phone?”

Suddenly, I remembered, it was in the bedroom but during our argument my husband had grabbed the phone and slid it into his back pocket.

Fuck.

Sometimes when he tried to have sex with me, I would physically struggle with him for what felt like hours until I would eventually give in and just lie there like a corps with tears rolling down the side of my face. That never stopped him, in fact, he was never concerned as to why I was crying, he carried on until he was finished. His explanation, “You’re my wife.” I would try and take myself somewhere else, anywhere else. Sometimes I would imagine he was secretly in love with me just so I wouldn’t have to live through the pain. He loves me so much that’s why he doesn’t want me to leave.

Hearing myself say it out loud sounds so pathetic, but that’s what I did. I tried to convince myself that he loved me. I know he loves me, that’s why he’s fighting so hard for me to stay with him.

Finally, he released me. I ran out of the room, grabbed the kids and I went outside. I called my ex-husband and asked him to pick up my two oldest boys. I will say this, their father has changed so much in the last several years. He’s not the same person he used to be. He actually tried to file a temporary restraining order against my husband on my behalf, which the court would not allow him to do. They said since I was “the victim” I needed to do it myself. His mother attributes his dramatic change to his medication, but me, I say it’s God. No matter what, I have always prayed for him. I want my boys to have a father they can look up to. To be honest, sometimes I think he’s a better parent than I am.

Due to my haste, I forgot to grab the keys to my car so the boys and I sat outside shivering in the cold waiting for their father and stepmother to arrive. Damn it was cold. After their father picked them up I didn’t have anywhere to go. I didn’t have keys to the car but luckily it was unlocked.

I have a rare blood condition called Cold Urticaria. It’s an allergic reaction your blood has where you break out in hives all over your body. Not knowing what to do and without my cell phone I laid in my car in the parking lot of my apartment complex. Suddenly, the pain and itching began. I uncontrollably starting rubbing my legs and arms against the seat in order to release the irritation with no help. I made shapes with my breath forcing myself to fight through it. I can’t go back. I can’t go back. If I go back now I know what that means. He’s won. After three hours in below freezing temperatures, I gave up and went back to my apartment to find my door unlocked. Thank you, God. My husband was asleep in bed so I made a fire and slept closely by on the couch. Thank you, God, I prayed. Thank you, God.

I waited until Friday when I knew my husband would be at work all weekend and I called my mother to tell her what was going on. I asked her if I could stay with her.

“Well… you can’t live here if that’s what you mean.”

“No, ma’am,” I said respectfully, “Can I just stay the weekend? I have another place to go,” I lied.

That Friday, my mother picked me and my youngest son up and we left with her. I stayed with she and her new husband over the weekend and by Sunday my two year old and I had no where else to go. When my husband came home to find us missing he must have called my phone over a hundred times. My mother kept urging me to tell him where I was because ‘he had a right to know.’

My sister and brother were also visiting my mom at the time and my sister called her dad to ask him If I could stay there. To my surprise I was shocked when he said I could. Wow, I thought, God can work miracles on people.

At the time, I was a stay-at-home mother so I wasn’t working but I tried to repay John anyway I could by cleaning his home and even offering to work for his landscaping company for free. All was well until one day he sat me down and started lecturing me about what a good husband I had and I needed to go back to him. “Gabby,” he said, “Tell me you’re not that dumb and naive. See, Gabby,” he continued, “I’m using you as an example for your brother and sister of what not to be.”

With Christmas a day away, I hung my head low and went back to my husband due to John’s insistence to tell my ex that John wanted us over for Christmas as a family. When we arrived, John shook my husband’s hand and told him what a great man he was…

So, please, don’t be like Gabby.

I Swear, I Don’t Know Where They Keep The Guns

Just like my stepdad, my first husband was a spender. He would get his paycheck and it would be gone so fast I didn’t even know he had been paid. It didn’t matter if rent was due, his response, Ahhh, we’ll just ask my parents for the money. I hated that about him. It bothered me more that he was so comfortable asking people for money than being unable to pay our rent. I would rather be homeless than ask someone else for money, maybe it’s my pride, but I would cringe every time he said that.

I remember one summer in Atlanta there was a heat wave that lasted for two weeks. It was over 105 degrees Fahrenheit for fourteen days straight. Our electricity just happened to be shut off at the exact same time as the heat wave had started and stayed off the the full two weeks. We were dying. We would hang out at his grandparents house just to keep from having a heat stroke. We were so broke we lived off a peanut butter jar the whole time.

After living in an apartment for five months we were evicted and moved into his parents basement. That was around The time we had our fight and he pulled out the shotgun. It was the week of Thanksgiving 2007. I wasn’t afraid, actually I was laughing. He is about 5’4” and no wider than a pin. Watching him struggle to lift up the shotgun was hilarious. Have you ever seen someone pick up a box and the expression on their face when they suddenly realize it’s much heavier than they anticipated? That’s what he looked like. A Dumbass.

I just turned around, walked out the door, got in my Branco, and headed to my mother’s. You know I’m in dire straits when I go to my mother’s. When I looked in the rear view mirror I could see him hauling ass through traffic following me. I was never afraid of him. I just rolled my eyes and let the traffic lights lose him.

When I arrived at my mother’s her street was on a slight incline and because I had faulty breaks with no working E-break I used to have to put a cinderblock in front of my tires or the car would roll away. Yes, it happened to me on several occasions the most awkward being at a restaurant. Our server came to our table and said, “Excuse me, is that your Branco?”

I looked over and the car had rolled out of the parking space and was sitting in the middle of the parking lot blocking the entrance to the restaurant. Cars were lined up with drivers standing outside their cars hands up pissed I had parked in the middle of the road. “Sorry! It does this sometimes.”

After strategically placing my breaks, I knocked on my mother’s door. No one was home. Shit. I walked around her entire house checking every window and every door to try and find a way in. I didn’t have a cell phone at the time so I laid in her backyard on the grass for two hours waiting to see if she would come home. Nope. I didn’t know what else to do, so I went back.

As I was driving down my in-laws road, I saw my husband and a friend of ours driving the opposite way. I was relieved. At least I could be alone. I wasn’t home long when there was a knock at the door. I looked over to see a patrol car sitting in the driveway. Fuck. I remembered my brother-in-law telling me as long as you don’t step out side your home or allow them in they can’t arrest you without a warrant. Don’t go outside, I thought, just don’t go outside.

“Yes?”

“Are you Gabby?”

“Yes,” I said timidly.

“Can you step outside for moment so we can talk.”

And out I went. Before the cop could even say anything the waterworks began. I had tears coming from places I didn’t even know existed.

“Ma’am, I spoke to your husband and he said you punched him and pulled a gun out on him,” he said in a long southern drawl.

“What! No, no, I hit him, but I didn’t pull a gun out on him! I don’t even know where they keep their guns. I swear all I did was hit him!”

“Ma’am, why don’t you come over here by the car.”

I followed the officer not even bothering to wipe my face, sobbing the whole way there, “I swear all I did was hit him.”

“Ma’am, what I want you to do is write down a statement for me.”

As I was writing another officer pulled into the driveway with my husband trailing behind. Please, God, don’t let me go to jail. I swear I will be good as long as you don’t let them take me to jail. Please, please God, I don’t want to go to jail.

When I was done I handed the officer my statement and I heard the second one whisper, “Her story sounds a little more believable to me.”

“Well,” said the officer, “He smells like he’s been drinking.”

Thank you, God. Thank you, God.

Luckily that day I didn’t get arrested, but after that, all bets were off. He started hitting me, pushing me, throwing shit at me. It didn’t matter if I was eight months pregnant or not, he would get mad and because he was smaller than me glass would go flying at my head. But don’t pity me, I hit back and I damn well sure I made him feel small. I’ve always been an argumentative person so I would go as long as he kept talking smack.

There was one time and one time only he got to me. He twisted my arm behind my back and started ranting about how my family didn’t love me. When he finally released me I got in the car and left. As I was driving I would pass by trees and picture my self driving my car straight into one. I was pregnant and I wanted to end it right then. Honestly, I thought the baby would be better off dead, too.

Yes, I’ve Had A Gun Pulled On Me

It’s mind-boggling how indistinctive decisions can drastically change the course of your life.  But when you really sit and think, that one decision wasn’t just one, it was a series of much smaller choices that have accumulated over time.  When I try and think back to how I was arrested it always leads to a previous chainreaction.  Therefore, if I simply tell you how I was locked-up, that wouldn’t give you the full scope.  Sure, I could just say here’s what happened that night, but, truth is, it started about thirteen years earlier.

When I was eighteen, and still in high school, my mother was still married to John at the time.  Over the course of the years John and I hated each other.  I was the reason for every problem in his life, so he told me.  John was horrific when it came to money.  He’s a hard worker and a husseler, I will give him that, but his downfall is his addiction to spending money.  One time, he made $100,000 on a business deal and spent it in one day on a yacht with no further business deals in the pipeline.

He was always about making money quick, so he decided to go into flipping houses.  HOWEVER, I ended up in trouble because I made a comment that the house he wanted to flip was a 1967 home on a golf course with an old faulty sewer system and I said it was a bad deal.  What do I know?  I was eighteen and a girl.  Well, as it turned out I was right.  That year was a shit year.

I was a senior in high school and John started out spending money left and right.  Instead of focusing on the faulty sewer system, he wanted to build a cascading rock waterfall in the driveway.  John knew nothing about construction, but that didn’t stop him.  He started a side business remodeling homes.  One day he came home and said he made a business deal worth over a million dollars.  To celebrate my mom made a five course meal and we all had champaign, it was great.  That was until John did a shit job and the homeowners refused to pay for the work he had done.  But, like I said before, everything was my fault.  I was his punching bag.

I will never forget February 13, 2005, it was a Sunday.  A friend of mine from school called me and said, “Hey, today is the one year anniversary of my grandfather’s death.  Can you take me to his burial site?”

“Sure!  I’ll come pick you up!”

While we were on the way, John called, “Nicole, where are you?”

It was around two o’clock and I didn’t think anything of it so I said, “Oh, I’m with my friend.”

“You need to come home right now, you didn’t ask permission to leave.”

“Well, I’m by the lake,” I proceeded to explain to him as delicately as possible what I was doing with my friend sitting next to me.

“You need to come home now!”

“Why? Is there something going on?”

“No, you need to come home.”

There was no way, I was about to tell my friend, “Sorry, we have to turn around I have to go home. I know this is an important day to you but my stepdad is an asshole.”  Therefore, I just carried on with my day.

It was around five or six o’clock when I pulled into the driveway.  I remember standing in my room when my mother walked in and said, “John said either you have to leave or he’s leaving, and he’s serious.”

I just stood there staring at my mom in shock.  What the hell, I thought, is my mom choosing John over me?  That night, I wrote a letter to her.

Dear Mom,

I think we need a cooling off period.  I’m going to stay with a friend for a week.  I will be back Saturday and we can talk then.

Nicole

I snuck out the window and chilled all night at a Waffle House and then went to school next morning.  A good friend of mine was sick with the flu and I had previously told her I would work her Valentine’s Day hostessing shift, so my mom knew exactly where to find me. I was standing at the host stand when around nine o’clock my mother walked in the door with my luggage and said, “Give me your phone and the keys to your car.  Oh, here’s your Valentine’s Day present,” and handed me a heart shapped box full of M&M’s.

In all reality, I didn’t have a plan.  Actually, I did.  I had planned on sleeping in my car for a few days.  I stood there for a moment completely mortified of what had just happened in front on my co-workers. With my luggage next to me, I used the work phone to call a friend to see if her mom would let me stay with them.  I had grow close to her mother, infact, on my eighteeth birthday, my mother didn’t even acknowledge me or my landmark birthday, so I spent that day with my friend and her mom. She made me tamales and damn were they good.

Around Wednesday, I was in class when I recieved a note from the office.

Call your mom.

I left class red faced and went to the office and dialed her work number.

“Hey,” she said.  “I got a call from the school saying that you were sleeping in your car and because you’re eighteen there’s nothing they can do, but they wanted to check to make sure everything was okay at home.”

“Really?  I don’t know who would have told them that.  I haven’t said anything, I don’t even have my car.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told them.  So, what’s going on?  Where are you staying?”

“I’m staying with my friend.”  That was it.  That was all we talked about.  That Saturday, my friend took me back home, I walked into my room to see my bed was gone, all my things had been packed up and were waiting for me in the garage and they had turned my room into an office.

That, was what started the chainreaction.

When I graduated high school, I had saved up money to buy a lemon and I moved in with a girl I met from a friend.  I slept on a cot in a sunroom about as big as a closet, but I paid half of everything.  I knew I was getting scammed, but it was a place to live.  Up to that point I had only had one boyfriend.  It lasted maybe a week, we talked more through AOL chat than we did in person.  Because of my history of sexual abuse, I wasn’t really into dating.  That summer, something unleashed and I went crazy.  I dated three guys within two months of each other.

The first guy was from South Africa, he was really tall and spoke Afrikaans.  One night, after a date he kissed me, then called me later and critic me about it.  He stared by explaining how my lips were too big and it felt like I was eating his face.  I wasn’t sure whether or not to thank him for his feedback or to be offended. I honestly, didn’t take it personal, I actually thought he was a shit kisser too, I was just too chicken shit to tell him.

The second guy was “Turkish”, later on I found out he was actually Iranian. Liar. Oh, man, that guy. First, let me just say, he was the best looking guy I’ve ever dated, in real life. He looked like a Calvin Klein model. But my god, was he lacking. Talking to him was like watching paint dry. I met him at a belly dancing club in Atlanta. He was an okay dancer, meaning he actually got out on the dance floor, but other than that, there was no connection. He showed up late on our date, twice. That’s a no, no.

The third guy, he was from a border town in Mexico. He worked as a dishwasher at my night job. I was attracted to him because I thought he looked like Daddy Yankee. We would talk on the phone and go to the movies, he was a real gentleman with me. He moved slow and he never pushed for anything. I really liked him. That was until I saw him in public with another woman. Although we were not a couple, I’m not into dating multiple people at one time. I like to put my focus on one person.

I remember that year going to the beach with some friends and as we were driving I saw shooting stars in the sky. My wish, please, God, send me a husband. I was nineteen by then, but if you’ve read my earlier post then you will know that is the only thing I have ever wanted in life, a family.

On our way back from the beach my friend wanted to stop at her guy friends house. We picked him up and went to eat at Waffle House. He was so unattractive. He used the N-word for everything, and I mean everything. He dressed in all black with chains and walked out of his house with a bottle of Jaeger. By the end of the night, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I have NO clue why he was attracted to me. We were polar opposites. I was a flower child and he was a racist goth. I said no, but the next day I thought, maybe that is who God has sent me?

After a month of dating, one night we had been drinking and he put his mother’s engagement ring on my finger. At the time, I had no where to live. I was sleeping on couch to couch not knowing where I would be next. He was living at home and his parents said I could live with them. They were really nice to me and I’m still good friends with his parents to this day. I know I’m a horrible person, but that was one of the only reasons I married him a month later.

I was never in love with him and he knew it. I do honestly believe he loved me in the beginning. He worshiped the ground I walked on. He stopped using the N-word, drinking, and doing meth. He got a good job working in a plant and we moved into an apartment. I was the downfall of our marriage. I didn’t give a shit about him or how I talked to him. I thought he was an idiot and treated him as such.

Then, it turned south real quick. We were fighting and I asked him to leave me alone and he wouldn’t, he kept following me around the house egging me on. Finally, I turned around and punched him in the jaw knocking out one of his back teeth. He walked away, but when I ran into him in the hallway he was holding up a shotgun at me.

To which I will explain what happened in my next post.

You Is Worse Than Fuck

By the time I was in middle school, John and my mom had been married for several years. When my mother and I fought it would be these screaming matches where we would each try and top the others last insult. I’m not going to lie, I don’t regret insulting my mother, I regret that I felt I needed to do it in order to show her the kind of person she really is.

I have never heard my mother genuinely apologize about anything. She uses the word “You” like a sailor.

“I’m sorry You feel that way.”

“I’m sorry You choose to see it that way.”

“I’m sorry I’m not a better mother for You.”

“I’m sorry You don’t think I’m good enough.”

“I’m sorry I’m such a horrible mother for You.”

“I’m sorry You choose to not like me.”

Everything with my mother is conditional. If I had a volleyball game, it was never, “Hey, great job tonight.” It was always, let me tell you every obstacle I had to go through in order to be here tonight so that You can recognize everything I do for You.

To be honest, the only thing I ever wanted from my mother was for her to listen. That was it, to just listen to me without rolling her eyes when I said her name or sound annoyed as I stuttered my words. There were so many times I had a funny story about something that happened at school and I just wanted to share the moment with my mom, but I knew as soon as I would start to speak she would give this sigh of annoyance.

I’ve never been a great speaker. When I’m nervous I stutter and I start hyperventilating. I find myself losing track of what I’m trying to say which leaves long gaps of silence during my stories as I try to collect my thoughts. The added pressure of knowing my mom was getting annoyed never helped. Which is why I started telling my stories to myself in my head.

If I was alone I would act out characters in different voices and make faces accordingly. I always thought of myself as Jo, from Little Women. I was an only child until I was fifteen, and like I said before, my room was my sanctuary.

Beware–She Uses Sharp Objects

When I was fourteen I read an article in a teen magazine about cutting.  I had never heard of doing that to yourself before, but the girl described how it felt like she was able to release the pain from inside of her.  That was all I wanted, for the pain inside of me to disappear. As it turns out, that is not true at all.  For me, it hurt more, I hated cutting.  I hated that my friends noticed, but the one person who didn’t was the only one I wish had. In all honesty, I wouldn’t call myself a cutter. I hate to put it this way, but I was a wimp. I barely cut myself at all. Believe me, I’ve met cutters, and the turmoil they go through is heart wrenching. So to try and say Hey I’m like you! feels wrong. I don’t have scars, I’ve never felt the compulsion cutters have, I just wanted to see if it would make me feel better.

In truth, I just wanted my mother to see how much I was hurting inside.  I wanted her to be empathetic and hold me.  I wanted her to see the cuts on my arms, legs, and my stomach and say wow, you must really need my love, let me give it to you.

What my mother saw was you’re an embarrassment because you’re suicidal and now you’ve made us look bad to our friends.  My mom likes to take all the credit for ‘discovering it’.  It makes me laugh how when she describes that night she brags and says ‘I just happen to see the dog playing with a blade in his mouth and when I looked in her bathroom I saw blood on the floor.’ Yes, because I’m that careless. Due to the dysfunctional relationship between my mother and I, I could never really confess to her why I was truly dead inside.  It wasn’t until recently, at the age of thirty-one, I was able to finally tell my mother I had been sexually abuse by three different men that first started when I was in fifth grade and lasted for a period of over twenty years.  I wrote a letter detailing my experiences and it was so emotional for me I asked her if I could read the letter with our backs touching.  When I was done, I was crying and my mom was silent.  We sat there for a while facing away from each other until she finally spoke.  Her response… interrogation. She questioned every evidence I presented to her about my abusers, except for one.  Him, I believe she always knew he was abusing me but didn’t want to deal with the reality of it. She said, “Well, his father was like that, so I can see that.”  As an older woman, I can handle my mother’s lack of emotional sympathy, but damn, am I glad I didn’t tell her when I was younger.  That could have been catastrophic for me.

The night my mom made the ‘discovery’ she and John took me to the emergency room and told the woman at the front counter I had tried to commit suicide.  The woman on the other side kept giving me this condescending look and I’ll be honest, it made me want to bash her face in.  At that point I was tired of people looking at my life and going ‘But, you have to it so good!’

I hate money.  I hated that my mother and step-father pretended to have money.  I hated going to all the neighborhood parties and have to listen to guys brag over who spends more on their dog to have it fucking groomed.  I hated watching adults smiling and laughing with each other only to turn around and talk shit about that person because he lost a business deal.  Who the fuck cares?  I hated being a babysitter in my neighborhood knowing that several men had knocked up their own babysitter.  I hated the wives who didn’t work, but put their kids in daycare so they could play tennis and get facials.  I hated that they would have their seven year old daughters eyebrows waxed. None of them, and I mean none of them, knew what the word family meant.

That is the only thing I have ever wanted in my life, was a family.

I wish my mother had done the right thing and given me up as a baby.  I wish someone had come along and hand-picked me out.  I wish I had been given to a family where I didn’t have to be afraid to tell them I was being sexually abused.  I wish I had grown up poor and known what it meant to rely on family to pull you through.  I wish I had people in my life I could lean on for emotional support.  I wish I could have a husband who respected me and treated me like a woman.  I wish I had fought harder to keep my marriage alive.  I wish I hadn’t given up.  I wish I had just chosen right the first time.  I wish…

God has given me many gifts in my life.  He has also brought me back to life when I died.  There is a constant struggle within me saying What did I do to deserve this dreadful life? and Thank you for all the times you have saved me in this life.  I pray ALL the time.  I ask God for advice before I do anything, or at least I try to.  Sometimes I don’t like the answer and I fight back, but what I’ve realized, is that is how I ended up in jail.

Truth… I’m tired of fighting for a happier life.

* If you suffer from self injuries please call 1 (800) DONTCUT

I Wish My Daughter Was Pretty, Like You

As a child I had long, thick, golden blond hair. In fact, Sleeping Beauty was my favorite Disney princess because I thought she looked like me. My mother loved styling my hair. She would put it in these intricate braids that crossed over and under and twisted. Teachers in the school yard were always admiring my mother’s craft. “How did your mother do that?” They would ask. I would try to explain it to them as they all gathered around and then skip away and start playing with my friends again.

My favorite hair style was when my mom would pull my hair back off my neck and put a bow in it. I had a pink heart shaped wooden plaque that hung on my wall with my name written in cursive. There was a long white ribbon that hung down from the plaque where I could keep my bows in order. I had white bows, pink bows, bows with beading, bows with lace, bows with characters, every kind of bow you could think of, I had it.

When I was about seven, and I was experiencing my rebellious years, I had been complaining for weeks for my mother to cut my bangs. One Sunday morning, I was in the living room playing with my doll while my mother was sleeping in from a night of partying. I started to become increasingly annoyed that my bangs kept tickling my eyeballs. Therefore, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I didn’t Need anyone to cut my bangs. I could do it myself.

I calmly put my doll down, walked into the kitchen, grabbed the scissors, stretched out my bangs, placed the scissors on my hair line and snip. All four inches of my bangs came floating down like feathers.

That was fun, I thought. Truth is, I hated my long hair. I was always hot and sweaty and when it came time for ballet practice my mom would complain about how difficult it was to keep it all in a bun, but refuse to do anything about it. In fact, it always seemed to be my fault. Once again, I made the decision to fix everything. I lifted the scissors to my scalp and pretended to be Edward Scissorhand working on a beautiful masterpiece.

Then, I heard the knob click on my mother’s bedroom door. I KNEW I was going to be in trouble. I couldn’t let her see me like that. I had to hide. As her footsteps pounded down the hallway I bolted past her and ran for the bathroom locking myself in.

“Ahhh!” I heard her scream. At first, my mother says she thought it was my doll’s hair, but when she looked again, she noticed it was mine. “Nicole! Nicole! What did you do to your hair?” She came running down the hallway and tried to open the bathroom door. “Cole, let me in!”

Suddenly, it sunk in, there was no way my hair would grow back in time so that I wouldn’t get a spanking. I had to face her. I don’t know if God was looking out for me that day, but I opened the door and my mother fell to tears. My mother mourned when I cut my hair. I wasn’t in trouble and I didn’t get a spanking, but that is probably the only time my mother has ever cried for real. No melodrama, just pure tears.

When I looked in the mirror I could see patches of bald spots. I looked like a boy who stuck his head in the weed-whacker with a stylish long rat tail in the back.

My mom took me to the mall to get my hair fixed, but because it was Sunday, nothing was open.

My mom ended up taking us out lunch while we waited for a cheap clip store to open. My mom says people stared at us the ENTIRE time we ate.

I didn’t realize at the time how important my hair was to the people I knew. Everyone started treating me differently. My little boyfriend at school even stopped talking to me (jerk). When people looked at me after that day, it was almost as if the softness had left their eyes, except for Ms. Pat.

Ms. Pat was the cook at my daycare. She always treated me like her own child. If I misbehaved, she scolded me, but not like my mother. Ms. Pat always spoke to me in a very matter-of-fact way. I loved that about her. I wanted her to be my mother. I loved Ms. Pat and unfortunately, I was also the reason she was fired.

What’s interesting is that the same way I wanted Ms. Pat to be my mother, my friend Haley, her mother wanted me to be her daughter. Which, on the outside may seem sweet, but she didn’t just want me to be her daughter, she wanted me to replace her daughter.

I’ve never had a lot of friends, but the few I do have I keep very close and dear to my heart. Haley was a year younger than I and lived in the same neighborhood. My mom and John were also friends with her parents and were periodically go out get her to a local restaurant or bar. Haley’s mother was a bartender, and according to my mother, she was also an alcoholic. Sometimes on the weekends, I would sleep over at Haley’s house and at some point in the evening after her mother had a few cocktails, she would call me over to the couch. “Come here Nicole. Come sit on my lap.” I would sit there while she would play with my hair dotting on me and it never failed, “I wish my daughter was pretty, like you.”

Sometimes when Haley’s mother made comments like that to me Haley would scream, “I can hear you!” Other times I could just hear her crying in her room.

Eventually, Haley started to resent me. She would look for ways to prove she was better than me. To be honest, I didn’t care if she was mean to me. I understood. I just found myself trying harder and harder to prove to Haley that I wanted to be her friend. The day Haley’s mom saw my haircut, it was like a light switch turned off. Suddenly, Haley’s mother started running her hands through her daughter’s long red hair and ignored me. I was so relieved, but by that time, our friendship was over. Haley had started hanging out with other girls in the neighborhood and stopped talking to me altogether.

Like I said, I hated my long hair.

You Ruined My Life, Love Mom

When I was younger I was ALWAYS in trouble, but not because I was a trouble maker, but because I had a bathroom problem.  When it was time to be picked up from daycare, I could hear my mother’s footsteps coming down the hallway and that was it, release.  In first grade, I was diagnosed by an Urologist as having a valve reflux problem in my kidneys (to which he blamed the problem on), but the wetting continued long after I had surgery.

On the days I peed in my pants, which happened more often than not, I had to go straight to bed without dinner.  I didn’t mind not having to be around my mother, but not eating before bed bit, That was torture.  I love to eat.  My family used to call me the human garbage disposal because I will eat ANYTHING!  And I mean anything.  I’ve had scorpions, sea urchins, and little baby octopus’ with black eyes staring back at me.  I’ve even gone as far as eating food out of the trash, with mold and roaches (not intentionally of coarse), so screw you Andrew Zimmern, I did that shit for free! The crazy part is, because of my OCD, the only time I refuse to eat something is when it has a piece of hair in it. Have you ever had a piece of hair stuck in the back of your throat and when you go to pull it out you start gagging? That’s the image I have, every time I see hair.

Because we never had food in the house growing up, needless to say, I loved when my mother’s boyfriend John, came over to make pancakes.

On the night we were all sitting around on John’s couch and the sigh escaped my lips, I could see horns start to grow from my mother’s head.

“What is it?” John asked.

My mom gave me this look of, you better keep your mouth shut.  “Oh, nothing,” I said quietly.

“No,” John insisted, “You can tell us.”

“Yeah,” my mom said glaring behind him, “You can tell us.”

“No, I don’t want to say anything, it was nothing.”

“Well no,” said John, “If you have something you want to say, you can say it.”  It surprised me by how genuinely concerned John seemed to care about my feelings.

I wasn’t sure what to do.  Honestly, at that moment, I started to feel bad.  I didn’t want him to think I didn’t like him, but I just wanted to spend time with my mom.  I wasn’t grounded that weekend or at my grandparents, so that might be my only chance to be alone with her.  “Well, do you have to come over EVERY Sunday?” I asked shyly.

I don’t recall what happened later that night, but the following morning when I woke up I came out of my room to see my mom sitting in the livingroom crying on the couch.  “Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked.

She did this sort of melodramatic wipe of her tears and said, “Thanks Nicole for ruining my life.”

I didn’t know what to do, I was seven, but even as a seven year old, I knew she meant it. I had always known my mom hated me, so I just turned around, walked back to my room, and shut the door.

From the time I was born it was ingrained in me to never get married or have kids while your young, it was the dumbest thing my mother ever did. What I heard my mom saying was, ‘YOU, were the worst mistake of my life.’

If I said, “Hey mom?”

She would roll her eyes and irritatingly say, “WHAT Nicole?”

“Never mind.”

So to this day, I believe my mother genuinely hates me.

About an hour or so later, there was a knock at the front door.  What do you know, there was John, standing in the doorway holding a bag of pancake mix.

Don’t worry, my mother is not the antagonist. I’m just as guilty as she. One winter, around the same age my mom was mad at me about something so, it was my turn. “I hate you!” I screamed. I was in my Beauty and Beast pajamas ready to go to bed when my mother opened the door and pushed me outside. Click. I could hear the deadbolt locking.

I began screaming and beating on the door as loudly as I could. I wanted everyone to know what a horrible mother she was. I wanted the two nice ladies next door to save me.

“They’re lesbians,” my mother would whisper as they walked by. One thing you should know about my mother… she is the LOUDEST whisperer you will ever meet in your life and a pointer with no remorse. At seven, I didn’t know what the hell Lesbians were, but they seemed much nicer than my mother.

Eventually after several minutes of blood curdling screams, my mother unlocked the door to let me back in.

But that never stopped me.

Meet “The Bitch”

Getting arrested was not something I ever thought would happen to me.  Sure, it was on my bucket list, but as a joke.  I wanted to be arrested for jaywalking or some bullshit like that.  Not arrested for real.

In school, I was shy and easily embarrassed.  In high school, I remember I had a crush on a boy who dressed like a hippie.  He had long hair and he played the guitar.  He used to drive a Volvo caddywagon.  My favorite part of the day is when we would pass each other in one particular hallway coming back from my science class.  I would carry my physics book close to my chest but with my arm strategically placed so he could read what class I was in.  I’ll be honest, I sucked at physics, it was way over my head.  I was more into history, English, and my art classes, but I loved the idea that he would think I was intelligent solely because I took physics.  One time, as we were passing in the hall he looked up, smiled, and waved at me.  My face turned bright red, I immediately put my eyes to the floor, pretened not to see him, and ran, no, not ran, bolted the other way, only to realize he was waving at the guy walking behind me.  There I was, running like crazed tomato through a crowded hall into a bathroom where I locked myself inside a stall so I could calm down.

My crushes never lasted very long.  If I felt they were becoming too real, I stopped liking them.  My dreams of them were all I wanted.  Nothing more.  I have always enjoyed my own mind, more than reality.  It’s safer there.  That’s where I go when I’m afraid.  And I wasn’t just afraid growing up, I was terrified.

I sucked my thumb until I was in fifth grade.  But that wasn’t all, I used to wet the bed and my pants until around the same time.  I remember being at my grandparent’s house one night, I looked  at my thumb ready to suck and said, “I’m too old for this,” and that was that.  I was done.  The bed wetting was a little different.  I don’t remember when or how I stopped.

To be completely honest, I was terrified of my mother.  She spanked me and it hurt like hell, but she never beat me or physically abused me, but damn, she could make you feel like you were worthless.  A couple of years ago she had asked me what I wanted for my birthday.  I told her I wanted to get pictures done with my children.  As I’m opening my gift I see that it’s a complimentary studio session with an 8×10 and two 5×7’s included.  My mom starts “apologizing” to me that she couldn’t get anything better because the cashier at the picture place was choosing to fail at her job.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I wanted to get you a gift card but they don’t do that.  All they offer are picture packages, so I said to the girl, ‘So you’re choosing to fail at your job.'”

“Because the company she works for doesn’t offer gift cards?  She was choosing to fail at her job?”

“Yeah, I told her, ‘Well, you just lost a sale.'”

“How old was she?”

“I don’t know, she looked like she was in high school.”

“And you told her she was CHOOSING to fail at her job because the company she works for doesn’t offer gift cards?” I repeated, hoping my mother would get the point.

“Oh, yeah,” her husband chimed in, “she had this girl in tears.”

If you’ve ever seen The Big Bang Theory,  then you will understand what I mean when I say my mother has the personality of Psychiatrist, Dr. Hofstadter, with Mrs. Cooper’s intellect and racist remarks.  According to my mother, black people are another species that should not be mated with, Asian cultures just speak that “ching chang” language, people of India all have some gross “dot thing” on their head and everyone who is not white needs to act white, but stay in their own group.  My mother loves the attention she receives from her ignorance.  It makes my skin crawl the way she brags about how entertaining she thinks she is when she insults someone elses culture, because she ‘just didn’t know’.

In reality, a lot of Americans are ignorant of other cultures.  I doubt most Americans could explain why someone from China would be insulted if you called them Vietnamese or a Vietnamese, Chinese, for that matter.  But her ignorance is not why I’m terrified of my mother.   To this day, just hearing my mother’s footsteps gives me anxiety.

When I was in Kindergarten, my mom started dating a man by the name of “John”.  I usually spent weekends with my grandparents so my mom could go out and party.  Which, I loved because that meant I got to hang out with my grandfather.  I rarely saw my father growing up, so my grandfather was the father figure in my life.  My mom married my father when she was seventeen and had me shortly after her ninetieth birthday.  At the time when my mother found out she was pregnant with me, she and my father were doing Cocaine.  My mom was able to quit easily, but it was very difficult for my father, so he went to rehab.  My mother tells me that when my father got out he wanted to continue to hang out with the same people so she divorced him.

My mom dated some guys here and there, but they were never serious.  I could see there was something different about John.  He started coming over on Sundays to make pancakes for us.  I loved that about John because my mom NEVER kept food in the house.  She had money for a nice car, clothes, going out to clubs, but food, nope.  Her philosophy was, ‘If its in the house, we’ll eat it.’ DUH!!! That’s what you do with food! All I remember eating while growing up were beans.  That was it… beans, and not just beans, canned beans.  Green beans, kidney beans, lima beans, white beans, black beans, every bleeping bean you can think of.  That’s what was for dinner.

As were sitting in the living room together and John mentions coming over for a pancakes an unexpected sigh came out of my mouth…