shelbea

It's been a long time since I've even written a real post.
I'm not even sure when or what my last one was, but I'm not going to go back and check.

I'm feeling extreme anxiety.
I've been having these nightmares that consist of old memories that I've forgotten for a reason.
I don't know if I'm going to get accepted into college.
I don't think I have any female friends anymore.
At least, it doesn't feel like it.
Julia never talks to me anymore.
She's busy at her new school, and I'm so happy that she gets this opportunity,
but I don't think she really cares as much as she used to because she has a lot of things going on for her.

It's kind of hard to have a best friend that doesn't have time for you anymore.

My room is constantly a mess now, and I don't really know what to do about it at this point.
No matter what I do, it's always messy. I'll clean it, and the next day it's a wreck. I don't even know how it gets messy. It just does.

I'm worried that all the people close to me are going to get bored of me and float away.

I'm so tired these days.

I miss my siblings, but I'm terrified to go visit them because I'm afraid of my Mother again.

I need my damn permit or else I won't have my license in time for College.
If I don't get a job soon, I'll be so far behind.
My Aunt and Uncle are starting to show indications that they're having money problems, and I'm worried.
Lately I've been having insecurities about myself.
I mean, I know I'm not UGLY. But I just feel so inferior to every other girl and I don't know why.
It's dumb, and it frustrates me.
My parents and siblings aren't picking up their phone and I'm worried about that too.

I hate complaining, and I always sound so whiny.

I don't even have a real reason to complain. Things at here are great.

I guess I just kinda feel like I'm not where I'm supposed to be in life right now, and it's really frustrating.

Grr grr grr.

So I reply back,
 

"     I'm glad the kids know better now. I'm not sure I had that grasp on her actions until a year or so ago. It's definitely a good thing to have. It's understandable to be discouraged sometimes, in fact it's even understandable to be discouraged most of the time. Despite her flaws, I love my Mother to death, but sometimes I think it would be better for the house if she was to go somewhere for help. I hate to say it, but I don't think she'll get any better. But I know these things cost money, and these are hard things to do. It took me long enough to even accept the fact that she won't get any better. I just want her safe and everyone else safe at the same time. I know you want that too. Unfortunately that is a hard task to perform, but I think you're doing fairly well with the circumstances at hand. Just don't give up, because whether you succeed or not, the kids and I will always remember that you tried your hardest and that's all that matters at this time in our life."

he replies:

Hey my Shelbea-

We had a preliminary consultation on Thursday.  The doctor was hopeful, citing the development of the lump just before Jenni’s menstrual cycle began, (common to cysts but not tumors); the presence of a small precursor lump in the same spot that had not changed in eight years, (also common to cysts); the fact that Jenni breast fed her babies before the age of 24, (statistically, a good thing when it comes to warding off breast cancer); and the fact that there is no breast cancer history in her family.

 On Monday we’re going in for a diagnostic mammogram and ultra-sound test- -the results of which should be available by Wednesday at the latest.  She’s not out of the woods yet, but we are hopeful.  You’ll be among the first to know when we have definitive results.

Love,
Dad

I must have done something right.

Why?

I have no idea.
Today I just burst out crying, for no reason at all.
I hate crying.

I really hate crying.

But I ate some really good cantelope today.
Watermelon was not so good.
Maybe it went bad.
 

Julia once asked me why people are so greedy. Why they always want.
And my automatic answer was "because we were born empty. With the drive to be powerful."
I think that's very true.
I told her that no matter what, the human mind and body will always be selfish and never be satisfied.

We are raised to believe that we can be anything we want.
That we have the power to be anything, and overcome anything.
But I believe that also creates our minds to block out the possiblity that we, as human beings, have huge flaws in the making of our emotions and instincts.

It is often said that as children, we aspire to be our parents.
And as we grow up around our parents, we pick up the traits of our caretakers and instinctively become like them.

Now I ask you, what happens if your parents weren't really parents at all? If they never really took care of you?
Who do you have to look up to for advice, where do you drive your ideas to succeed from?
Well, this is where the dysfunctional branch of our society come from.
They're completely lost and become ultimately misled.

And often these people try to find an emotional partner to guide them in the right direction in life, but usually they just drag down their partner with them in their spiraling insanity. Then they try to have kids to find something else to latch onto for dear life and affection.
So commences the neverending circle of dysfunctional humans. The children they have don't have a parent to look up to, just as their parents never did when THEY were kids, etc, etc.

Now when I was little, I was constantly told that I looked just like my Mother.
And in truth, I do. I look just like her.
Spitting image.
When I was young, I thought I was blessed that I looked like her.
After all, my Mother was beautiful.
But she was horribly, horribly flawed.
One of her huge priorities is beauty.
She would spend endless hours putting on makeup and doing her hair. Most of the time, she wasn't even leaving the house.
She just couldn't stand to be natural.
She hated herself.
She hated herself to such an extent that there are countless suicide attempts that I had to physically prevent.
For example, I remember being as young as 7 or 8 years old when my Mother took a butcher knife to her wrist.
As she started to attempt to break open her veins, I ran to her and latched my hands around her hand weilding the knife and used all the little girl strength I had to pull that knife away from her wrist.
I didn't even know what was going on. I just knew it wasn't okay.
I remember my Mother screaming "Just leave me alone you stupid bitch, Mommy knows what she's doing. Mommy wants to leave."
Leave. Leave, leave, leave.
I started to cry and said,
"But Mommy you love me, right?! And Bekkah, and Natalie and Noah too!? And Daddy!!!"
And I just remember as I finally wrangled that knife out of her hands, she looked at me with those dark, almost black-brown eyes,
and she said to me,
"No. I just want to die."
And she proceeded to rant and pace around the house cursing Hell to everyone and screaming to Jesus to 'take her now'.

My Mother has many flaws.

As I got older, this became a daily event.
My Mother overdosing, drinking herself to a wallowing stupor, drugging herself up.
But I never saw her as flawed.
I just saw her as sad.
And It made me sad, to know that my Mother is still a child.
Most times, when I would hear her crying when my Stepdad was away on business trips, I would carefully creep down the stairs to her bedroom.
I would sit there, behind her closed door, and listen to her cry.
She would just say "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."
She would continue to sob.
She was mostly sad when she was rarely sober.
Otherwise, she was just angry.
But when she WAS sad, I would carefully walk into her room, and she'd scream "GO AWAY."
However, I would just walk onto her bed with her.
I would rub her back.
And she would shove me.
So I would sit there, and ask her if there's anything I can do.
But she would never respond. Never has she responded.
So I would just hug her.
And she would continue to cry.
Cry until my shoulder was soaking wet and my hair was matted.
One time she said to me, so quietly, "Mommy I'm scared."
But the one I remember most, is when she told me "Shelbea don't ever leave me. I need you so badly. You're my strength."

This is my Mother.
Or wait, was I the Mother?
Well now, who do I look to for help?
Who do I aspire to be?
Who is my idol, my stencil?
Where do I get my ideas for success?

Let's just say, simply put, I don't.

My Stepdad was never a strong man.
He caved into her maniacal cravings.
He instigated her anger 80% of the time.
He hit her.
He screamed at her.
He beat her.
You don't do that to a child.
You simply don't.
Whether she's 36, or whatever, that woman never grew up.

She took everything she was able to take.
And when she saw that I was growing up, and that she still needed that, she wanted to take it.
So as I hit 13, she decided to beat me down.
Literally.
She got so mad at me for no reason.
I mean, she always got mad. Always. We (the kids and I) grew up knowing to tip toe around her.
But in this case, she would seek me out.
She would chase me around the house screaming, "I will make your life HELL." with her fists trying to find me.
Of course, I would run to my room as fast as I could and lock the door.
I had a bathroom in my room, a secret stash of food, a phone. I could stay in there for however long I needed to.
But she would try to break the door down.
Sometimes she'd succeed.
But most of the time, she would bash and ram against it so hard, that she would jam the door.
And I couldn't get out.
She would lock me into my own room.
At this point, I would get terrified.
I'd scream and cry and claw at the door.
For some reason, it scared me so bad knowing I couldn't get out, even though I had all the things I needed to survive.
When I'd eventually calm down, I would call my stepdad and he'd come home and unjam the door.
It was worse when I'd get locked in the bathroom though.

My Mother was so angry that I had something she didn't.
Something that she couldn't attain.
Maturity.
So when I was gone, she'd rip up all my artwork.
She'd break things in my room.
Rip off all the drawings on my walls.
I'd cry.
And she'd tell me to shut up, because I'm not allowed to cry.
Because I'm no longer a child.

She burned me with a cigarrette once.
She has scarred my body many times.
She has bruised my body countless times.
She has broken ribs.
She has broken my fingers so that I couldn't draw.
She denies all these things, because she doesn't remember.
And she never will.
Because she was never sober.
Never sober from alcohol, never sober from drugs.
She never touched the other kids.
Just me.

And I never got mad.
I never hit her back. Not once.
Sometimes I wish I did, so I could just see what she'd do.

I imagine she'd cry.
She has a lot of trauma from her childhood.
and i never liked to see her cry.
I felt like she never deserved to cry.
When she hurt me, and said horrible things to me,
I never really held it against her.
I mean, yeah, it hurt. A lot. And some of the things she has said to me still hurt.
But they just made me look at her and think "What a poor girl".
And I wanted to take care of her.
Because no one else ever has, right?

So whenever my Stepdad would beat on her and hurt her, I would pound on the door and scream at him.
I would scream at him and tell him to stop.
I would put myself inbetween him and my Mother.
This tall, heavy, 6 foot man.
And I was terrified each time.
I felt I needed to protect her.
No matter what.
because when I would look at her after he beat her,
and she would be in the fetal position.
She would be crying, "Daddy please don't hurt me I didn't do anything wrong. Please stop."
she would be shaking.
One time, when I was about 5, I saw her sitting in the corner of our hotel room that we lived in at the time in St.Louis.
And she was sitting there, with her hands in her knees, rocking back and forth, sobbing.
I know that she and my stepdad had gotten into a fight.
I was thirsty or something, I don't really remember.
So I walked up to her and tried to hug her, and she got really really angry.
I ran to my room, my little bed, and grabbed my teddy bear.
I walked up to her and touched her.
She screamed at me. Really loud. But I just stood there, with my arms outstretched as far as they would go, holding out my teddy bear to her.
I remember her face.
I didn't really understand  it then, but looking back, she had the face of a little girl.
Her eyes got all big, and her mouth opened a little bit. It looked like I had just handed her something so amazing.
Like love.
She silently took my teddy bear from me, and kept it for the night.

What always confuses me, is how I got here.
How did I get to Maryland?
Honestly, it's a huge blur to me.
Where did I learn this strength from?
Where did I learn this courage from?
Obviously not from my parents.
I just walked onto that plane, with 2 duffel bags, and I walked into the big unknown.
Leaving all my friends.
Leaving the Kids.
Leaving my Mother.
Walking into a whole new way of life. A new World.
I had no idea what was going to happen to me.

I always tell myself that it was just a human act of selfishness.
To leave all the people I had to protect and love just to save myself.
To me, that sounds like the ultimate act of selfishness.
But sometimes, I wonder if it was something I picked up along the way.

Now I look at my Mother, and I look back at everything.
I look back at the typical human circle of dysfunctional families.
And I wonder,
"Why am I not like that?"
Why am I not dysfunctional like I'm supposed to be?
Why am I not sad and angry like my Mother?
Why am I not angry at her, why do I forgive her?
Is it some kind of gene that I got?
A gene that promotes something unusual?
I'm never quite sure.

I just put all my hope into the Kids.
I really hope they'll turn out okay without me there to protect them anymore.




 

My room still reeks of fire.
Fire and burned ink.
Burnt paper.

I have the ashes of memories scattered all over my bed.
White ash is smudged onto my jeans.

I burned the letters that I had kept. The letters that Matthew had sent me while we were dating.
The letters that were full of lies.
I typed out one of them to Julia.

"Why hello there (:

Heya Shelbea, sorry it took so long for me to reply but I had to think up what I promised to draw for you. God, I think I've read your letter about 1,600x and it still makes me smile every sentance! I'm sorry that I have such shitty handwriting, but I am writing with a shitty pen so I have to push really hard. Hold on, lemme switch... Ahh much better. :]

Well I'm sitting here in Science avoiding my final at all costs, I know if I touch it I'll bomb it. Today is the 2nd of November so that mean just under a month till I get to see you. I really cannot get you out of my head, I can't concentrate on anything but you! Jeez I miss you so MUCH!

I know I talk to you everyday but I find that the only time I can lower my intense heartbeat, or cure my head of everything distracting is when I'm physically with you. I know that I was very dumb & ruined my time with you while you still lived here, but now that you're gone it seems like a part of me has left for Maryland too. It's really not easy to explain it all, considering that the English language itself lacks an adjective to describe how much I love you, at times it can get a lot worse. Because my mind is always on you, constantly I see things around me and all I can think of is you. Everytime I see a camera I think of how beautiful you are.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that you're the most amazing person to ever come into my life. I don't know what I'd do without you. Don't go anywhere Shelbea, I love you so much.

Love, Matthew"

I found this to be a stained letter.
Full of empty promises.
Created with fake emotion.

For some reason I had kept these.
I had come across them multiple times these past 10 months, and I was terrified to throw them away.
I loved them.
They said such wonderful things.
When I read them, I was so happy.

I thought someone loved me.
Someone who wouldn't lie to me.
Someone who wouldn't do drugs behind my back.
Someone who wouldn't fool around with my best friend.

I had high hopes for this boy.
The first person who I had actually believed cared for me.

Well, I certainly set myself up for a huge fall.

Tonight, I sat in my room.
I sat here, seething with black, boiling tar rolling around in my mind.
My conscience flickered to him multiple times.
What a fool he made of me.

Then my hands found themselves upon those letters.
I burned them.
And I'm sad.
I feel a loss.
I almost feel alone.
It's as though those were the only things I had to remind me that someone had said "I love you" to me.

But I feel relieved.
I really do.
I feel like he's finally gone.

I'm really scared of believing lies once more.
I just want to believe in something real.


 

It's been a while since I've put anything in here.
I'm feeling a bit reflective, so I decided just to spill everything in here like usual.

As of late, I've been really happy with myself.
With my appearence, body, etc.
I've always been okay with my body, but I've had huge issues with my appearence.
I suppose it's understandable since I grew up with the idea planted in my brain that I was hideous. I'd like to blame that on my Mother for putting it there in the first place, but I've also completely forgiven my Mother for everything she's done.
I'd forgiven her a while ago; around February. But I still had a bit of resentment. I couldn't let go of my childhood. I really couldn't.
But after visiting her in June, I decided whatever she did to me is all in the past now.
It can't be changed.
Her mindless screaming at night, her suicide attempts, her sharp tongue, her locking me in the bathroom or in my room. Sometimes the closet. The bruises and scars, the cruel words, her runaways, the threats. It's all something that I cannot change.
She was a beautiful person once.
On the days she was sober when I was still under the age of 10, sometimes she would be so wonderful. We were best friends and I hold those memories closer to me than most things.
My childhood has shaped me, and I'm not ashamed of it anymore.
When I first moved to Maryland, I was a royal mess.
I was scared of who I was now that I was free from that house. I mean, there were a lot of things that I didn't know about the world and about myself.
I didn't know that there were families who actually had parents who loved eachother. I didn't know that there were kids who weren't scared of their parents. I knew that that was how a family was SUPPOSED to be, but I figured it was all fairy tales. Like princesses and unicorns.
I didn't know what it was like to be loved or cared for. I didn't  know what it meant to love yourself or feel pretty. I didn't know what it meant to wake up and feel safe. To not feel anxious about what's awaiting for you when you come home from school. I didn't know what it was like to sleep with your door unlocked. I didn't know what it was like to only have responsibility for yourself and only yourself. I was so used to taking care of three kids and my Mother's mentality. I didn't know what it felt like to feel smart in school. I didn't know that it was even possible to feel like you're doing something good in life.
I just look back at the little child I was when I moved here and who I am now; and I'm overwhelmed.
It's pretty safe to say my Aunt and Uncle saved my life.
There aren't many people who get a second chance at life.

It just boggles my mind how wonderful it is to be alive and happy.
Then of course, I trace myself back to my siblings and what they're going through without me to protect them.
Always, always, always I think of that. Every day.
But I've realized they're not so little anymore.
As of today, Bekkah is thirteen now.
That's how old I was when I started to plan ways to escape from there.
She's not dumb.
She'll save herself soon enough. And Natalie is just one year younger. I'm not too worried about those two.
Plus my Stepdad has finally started to wake up out of his own little world and he's starting to see how lethal that house is.
We had a long discussion about it. And I didn't hold back. Instead of being afraid of him like I used to be, I spoke my mind freely.
And he cried.
It was shocking to me. To see this big man, who I saw as a tyrannical ruler when I was little, crying because of my words.
I wasn't cruel to him. I just simply expressed my seriousness about the situation at hand and the life of the children.
I hope that he'll do something about it.

I'm only worried about my little Noah. He's 9.
I remember changing his diapers and teaching him how to do math.
I remember teaching him colors and shapes.
I remember when I helped him take his first step.
This little boy was basically raised by me because my parents were too sucked up in their own world.
He slept in my bed with me until I moved out.
I was lonely for the longest time without him sleeping next to me. I missed the warmth.
I can't even imagine how lonely he felt.
 I remember when I was 14, I explained to him how one day I would have to leave and go to college.
He cried.
He started bawling and saying "please don't go to college Shelbea, please don't go."
It was the saddest thing in the world.

I know I can forgive myself for leaving Bekkah and Natalie, but I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for leaving Noah.
He has the most innocent nature of anyone I've met.
But I also believe that makes him vulnerable.
And I worry constantly.
I think he'll be okay though.

It's ridiculous; the things that scratch at the back of my mind.


 

I've decided to start writing in here again.
It's been a while.
I don't have much to really add.
My life hasn't taken much of a huge turn of events, I feel like.
I do know I've changed  a lot mentally.
Looking back at my old blog, http://shelbealoanne.blogspot.com/  (which by the way, I started that one the day I left MN.)
I've realized I'm no longer a child.
I used to be plagued constantly every day of the childhood I had.
I still think about it constantly, but I don't let it harm me in the way that it used to.
I almost miss it.
Instead, I remember it and I am consistanly amazed that I was able to leave that house.
Sometimes, I do amaze myself.

In other news, what's currently been buzzing around in my head is what is coming up in 5 days.
I will be leaving the comfort of my Maryland home to visit my Parents and the kids.
Yes, it's been far too long- over a year, in fact.
But I can't help being a little terrified of what's to come.
Last time I could hardly bear being in that house for 3 days.
This time, I will be there for a full week.
To me, that sounds like a death sentence.
I can just hear my Mother's rage happening all over again, and it scares me.
I hope that when I visit, I'll be able to protect the kids like I used to.
I'm afraid of their little faces not being so little like they used to be.
They're growing up, for sure.
I know I will probably sleep on the floor like I did last time that I visited.
I don't really mind, because last time the kids all slept on the floor with me.
Kind of like old times, when we had our safe gatherings in my room.
Don't get me wrong, I'm excited to see the kids.
So much that it hurts a little.
But I'm just so nervous about going back in that environment.
When I tell people about it, they don't really get it.
They don't understand the choking feeling you get when you walk into that house.
the artificial happiness emitting from the furniture and the walls.
As soon as I see my Mother approach me, I feel like I want to run.
Whenever my Stepdad tries to talk to me, most of the time I sit there and just nod because I know if I say anything otherwise, he'll say such nasty things.
Everything I feel there is natural instinct.
There is no personality, no free will.
When you live there, you live to survive.
I'm sure I'll do just fine.
It's just the memories that come back are a little frightening.

So what am I to make  of all this?
I don't do very much.
I compose myself very well, as I always have.
It's very rare for someone to see me lose my composure.
The life I used to lead is poisonous, yet it's very precious to me.
All of that pain and horror is what I live on to remind myself that I was put on this world to succeed and live happily.
Everytime that I look back at all those times where I was locked in some kind of room, or cornered, or shoved to the ground, or bruised,
I feel sorry for the people that allow themselves to be stuck in their past. If I had done such a thing, and dwelled on my past, where would I be right now? Not in Maryland, that's for sure. I'd still be living with my parents, living in complete fear and terror.
People always look at me funny when I tell them I am glad for the horror I lived through. I am glad for the scars I can carry around. I am so happy that I was put to the test at such a young age. It would be foolish to feel otherwise, don't you agree? I'm glad all these terrible things happened to me. Sure, they have no justification. And if I could prevent it, I would have. But I'm pretty satisfied with the life lessons I have learned. I'm stronger anyways.
That was a bit of a nonsensical rant, but that's fine. It made me feel a little better.

Oddly enough, I've been thinking about Carson a lot lately. I watched "Bridge to Tiribithia", and in the end, the girl dies. (sorry to spoil the ending, but I doubt that anyone reads this blog anyways. It's mostly for my mental release anyways- not typically for people to read.) And someone made the comment of "I don't know what I'd do if my best friend died when I was 13. That's so young."
Something ignited inside me somewhere when that was said. I was only 14 when Carson committed suicide.
Then I started to think about how sad he must have been. He died so young. He was so talented. He was the source of my strength for a very long time. I depended on him to say something funny to cheer me up. He often set me straight when I was panicking over something my Mother was doing. He consoled me. I definitely took him for granted. He was always smiling. No one would have ever assumed he was so sad. When he died, I had no idea what to do. I didn't know how to funciton.
I decided to honor his life in the most beautiful way.
To do what he always did for me. To smile.
Even when I had the saddest feeling in the world, I would smile.
I wonder what he would think of me now? I hope he would be proud of what I've become. I've become so much better from the person he knew me as. I'm not dependent anymore. I hope that he would smile, for real if he saw me now.
So today, I did something that I haven't done since the month he died.
I wrote him a letter. Afterwards, I burned the letter and scattered it across the ground like I used to do.
It made me feel a little better, and less lonely.

I really miss my siblings.
I was never physically alone when I lived with them.
I miss having someone next to me when I sleep.
It was funny, Noah would sometimes hold ME when I slept.
That little, innocent child.
I really hope he's doing okay.
I can't wait to swing him around in circles again.










 

Why are you such a little quirk,
with the way your smile twists and turns into a million shapes
and how the air around you fills with the sound of your laughter.
Now you're sitting across the room
with your chest split in two
I'm sorry but I don't have the time.
You can't come crying when you haven't picked up the line
your hair is a crazy mess
and I'd like to help you braid it,
but I haven't got the time.
Once I picked up your lost face from the shed
and you thanked me with shades of black and blue
I'm sorry but I'm not playing with you.
It's funny where the mouths come to meet
and where the clouds go to die
lets all just close our eyes and let our open skulls bleed.
Twice I showed you how to turn a frown to a grin,
and you told me you didn't provoke the queen
but how can I believe you
when I saw you in the greenhouse
with stingers planted in your skin.
Now you're drowning in the bathtub
with your wires neatly displayed
and God, how I'd love to help you
But I just don't have the time.