I’m sharing a piece that I wrote a few years ago. I hope you like it.
I was born a bastard. I think back on how my unplanned entry into the world probably shaped my views about men, love and relationships, but I make no excuses for my behavior. I’ve learned to trace the pathways of my pain from the birth canal I came through.
This is me. This is my life. This is my story. My mother will hate that I’m telling “our business”, but writing has always been cathartic for me. I need it. I need to be able to tell my story in my own words and in my own way with no filter or thought of hurting anyone. I will keep it brief.
I’ve loved four men in my life and I’ve had more “friends with benefits” than most people would care to know, but it is in these relationships that I’ve learned who I am, who I was and who I’m meant to be.
My first love was my dad. He was a wonderful dad. He had the most beautiful smile in the world. He was a loving and protecting dad who could always make me feel special. I can recall countless play dates, parties, dresses and kisses from my dad. He was my hero.
He was a very good dad to me and my siblings, but he was a bad husband to my mother. He was a violent man. He was abusive to my mother. My dad loved many different women at the same time including my mom. He wanted a picture perfect family with his kids and a woman who didn’t challenge the life. Challenge authority or the regime he created in our household.
The last image I have of my family together occurred when I was nine years old. My mom had just walked in the house from a long day of work. She was tired and you could see it in her face. My dad had been drinking. My ten month old brother and I were playing in the living room. My mom came in and sat down on the couch. My dad had that look in his eyes and the next sound I heard was his fist across her face. I screamed. My brother fell and started to cry. My mom started fighting back and screaming at me to get my brother! Get the baby and go in your room! I did. I picked up the baby and ran into my bedroom. My six year old sister was crying and I being the oldest tried to comfort them both. I heard glass breaking. Blood curdling screams. Cursing and crying. Fists punching, the sounds of pain being inflicted in the name of love. This is what it was right? This was love. Love hurts. Love is painful and takes no prisoners. Love demands a response to your questions or you will get a fist in your mouth. The same mouth you tenderly kissed will be battered and bruised with blood stained teeth chattering inside.
In the interest of sanity and keeping my short story short, I will bypass a lot of things that impacted who I am, and tell you what happened next… I was 13 when I lost my virginity. I lost it to a boy who was also 13. He was a friend. A good friend who cared for me and about me. He was kind and compassionate. It was early September and I came home that summer from visiting my grandmother with some sort of virus.
The virus had me bed ridden for 7 days. I had both fever and chills. My friend, (I will call him Jacob); Jacob would come and visit after school. He would put a cold compress on my forehead and just sit there trying to make me laugh. He wasn’t worried about getting sick. He was worried about me. He told me jokes, gave me juice and hovered closely by my bed making sure I was okay. He came every day to check on me. It was before we had pagers, cell phones or the internet. He had time for me. He was protective and encouraging and I fell in love with that smile, laugh and his beautiful thick lashes. I had long vowed to save myself for marriage, but in my bedroom, something changed and I wanted to give him something no one ever had…me. And so I did.
What he gave me in return was so much more. He gave me his 13 year old heart and I didn’t know it at the time. You see he didn’t know that I was already damaged goods and that my first love, my dad, had shaped my disbelief in the male race already. He didn’t know that I was my father’s daughter and therefore incapable of accepting love for what it was. I loved my first, but only as a child at 13 was capable of loving someone.
Jacob and I had a fluid and ever changing relationship. It evolved. Years of friendship, time apart, age and various experiences shaped us. He was always around, playing the supporting role, being a major contributor in my life both personally and academically. He was always cheering me on and encouraging me to be the best that I can be, but he also became a player.
I was 14 when I met my next love. He was a beautiful, light skinned man of 20. He was six years older than me and he knew it was wrong, but he had fallen in love with a child. He was a grown man pursuing me endlessly, but he and I were in love. Love is blind right? Love can’t tell the difference between right and wrong. Love makes you lose your mind and commonsense too.
– To Be Continued –