**Trigger warning // sexual violence, child abuse, suicide
After months of being free from insomnia, tonight was a night I found myself online and on social media, just scrolling. I think spirit wanted me to see something because the messages I received were so clear and confirmed how I felt. I don’t quite know how I found myself on one page, and landed on this one but I’m excited to share my momma story because it’s still being created and this time, I’m the cocreator.
I can’t recall how old I was but my mom was always so busy. We barely had furniture and my mom was always in an unhealthy relationship. I’ll never forget laying in the room as my mom sat in the living room on the pink couch going nuts because she thought it was moving, she was high. Both of my parents are addicts. In the first half of my life, my dad was around but with so many limitations made by my mom. Going to his house was my escape from her. I was about 4 when she got locked up for drug trafficking. At the time I had no idea what was going on. I stayed with my grandmother and uncle who was 7 years older than I. My moms girlfriend stayed at the apartment in Harlem while I stayed with my grandmother in the Bronx. I remember the girlfriend taking me to the circus, and I remember her making me leave the bath tub the next day naked, to go sit in the living room while she did my hair. Her mother and her moms girlfriend were sitting in the living room and I ended up getting popped for not moving my hand fast enough when getting my hair done.
I remember laying on the couch at my grandmothers house with my uncle. He was laying on the inside and I was on the outside. We were watching cartoons and as my memory recalls, it was morning time and my grandmother was up front resting. My uncle wanted to play house. He was the Dad. I was the mom and he wanted to touch the breast that barely had time to think about how big they would grow, or how perky they would be. It escalated over the years to him wanting me to go down on him, touching me and making me touch him, to me being 10 and telling him no. Where was my mom? She was present, but she was high and would later find out from my aunt.
By the time I was 6 my mom met this woman who went by the name Negra. To this day, I don’t know her real name but I remember her face and I have a strong hate for her. She turned, at least in my eyes, my mother against me. It started with me having to do times tables and chores. No big deal right. But I was 6. It quickly escalated to me being cut off from my family, getting clothes from the thrift shop, being beaten with shoes and belts fresh out of the shower, and forced to eat oatmeal while her children ate good. My mother was too high to help, and too broken to see how badly she was breaking me. By now, I was 7, and I would tell my grandmother what was happening. I remember her getting so angry and telling my Dad and that would only result in me getting beaten so badly that I could barely move my finger, or I had whelps on me that would last months.
One day, Negra had me take all of my toys to the garbage, including my collectible Barbie with a gold dress that I kept in my closet. My aunt Elaine bought it for me. My grandmother bought me two sewing machines and I would use them to make my barbies some clothes. It was all thrown away. I remember being in the elevator with my grandmother after coming from the park and on this day, I actually had fun. But I was extremely dirty and my grandmother wasn’t pleased. But what hurt the most was not being able to say hello or give her a hug because I wasn’t allowed to speak to my family. My great grandfather lived on the 6th floor of my building at the time and was being moved to a nursing home so my family came to clean out the apt. I believe we went three years without talking to my family.
I’ll never forget being forced to stand in the corner for hours, at times, all night, sneaking to get some sleep before Negra woke up. Sneaking to eat uncooked hotdogs, spaghetti noodles, and stealing from the store because I was hungry. Or the time she made me eat spoiled beans because my 8 year old self didn’t clean out the fridge properly. Or the times I would wake up to an empty apt because my mom needed that fix. Her children raided and took over my apt and I was the outcast. I didn’t belong. I don’t know where my mother was. I will never forget bearing down on the floor to listen under my moms door to see if she was alive. She had been getting high for days and slept for days as well. Hiding in the closet because ACS was called on my mom and they hid me so I wouldn’t be taken. I can’t believe the system allowed me to stay there. We didn’t even have furniture anymore. Or being hit in my face with a shoe, which left a permanent scar on my eyebrow. Hey, it became a fashion statement so I embraced it! Or the time I got hit in my face with a belt, which left a permanent scar on the top of my lip, right before we went out to ride bikes in Central Park. I was a prisoner to myself and in that house. Lauren Hill said something in a post...sometimes the person hurting you is the one hurting the most. I know my mother was broken, but Negra must have been beyond repair. She hated me and till this day I don’t know why. I wish I could ask her, talk to her, find some reason behind her decision to inflict so much pain on me. When it came out that I was being molested, she had me hump on pillows to show her “how he did it to me.”
When she left I was so happy. My mom was still strung out but I wasn’t afraid of her and eventually I would move to Virginia where I faced other trauma for the next year.
I’ll never forget staying in the house while everyone was outside. Looking out of the window praying someone would come save me. I would look out of the window and what’s wild is nobody knew what was going on. They just thought I didn’t want to come out. My mom would put on 1010 wins and leave the house. I couldn’t watch tv or listen to music and she would feel the tv just to make sure, and obviously, the radio was turned to a station so I couldn’t finesse listening to it while she was out. I remember sleeping on the roach infested floor in my apt. We lived in a one bedroom at the time and my mom kicked me out of the room. By now, the furniture was destroyed by Negra’s children and thrown away. I would sleep on the floor closet to the wall because I was afraid of all of the open space.
I moved to VA the summer I turned 13 and returned When I moved back home at 14, I lost my virginity that summer. My mom apparently had. “Get high crew” and the entire building knew what she was into. Yea she held a job, but she was an addict and I was the target. For the next 3 years, I escaped her, through sex, men, weed, and alcohol. We fought, she kicked me out, and finally by 17 I left. I remember her giving me money with cocaine powder still present. I threw it in her face. I was so angry I didn’t know what else to do. I remember her giving me a metro card with coke on it, or coming out of my room and catching her friend cut cocaine up in a dollar bill. Her male friend loved me and not in a good way. Before I even hit double digits, her shady green eyed friend named Mike found something attractive on my barely developed body. And why my vagina was red when she picked me up from my God mothers house is still a mystery to me. But I vaguely remember that conversation in the elevator. I remember being 16 and rushing home because her and her then girlfriend, Shy, were fighting. After barricading myself and shy in the back room, my mom pulled out a handful of my braids. Lol. It’s still bald and I now have CCCA.
I remember my mom calling me when I finally moved out, threatening to kill herself if I didn’t come home. I didn’t go home and she’s still alive and that wasn’t her last death threat.
I wish I could say my momma issues stopped there but they would continue well into my adulthood, passed my 3 children, and until today, at 35.
I have a lot of very bad memories and I also have some decent memories. Up until now I’ve never cried over anything. Not as an adult. I cried over being unhappy in my relationships because I looked for love and never knew what love looked like. To me, love was pain. Yelling and screaming. Getting beaten and bruised. Molested and used. Love wasn’t kind. It didn’t protect me. It didn’t make me strong. Nobody helped me. But they all said they loved me. I was 8 when I first tried to commit suicide. Love was putting me out of my misery because I hated my existence and couldn’t understand why I couldn’t be treated differently. Nobody chose me.
I grew up with abandonment issues. I feared rejection, I hated speaking up for myself. I still fear public speaking, I’m afraid of opening up, and I was always afraid of being me. Hell, I didn’t know what being ME meant. I had failed relationships, a failed marriage, and 3 kids.
But God. But God But God. I graduated high school. I graduated college. I have an MBA to be exact. I have a decent career. My kids are good, healthy, and loving children. Very smart. They may have broken me, but God.
In 2019 I went through a really bad breakup but I felt like it was needed. I rolled over and said to myself “god is going to teach me a lesson with this one” and he did. I think this man was my twin flame. We connected and we vibes. But he hurt me every chance with his actions, I wasn’t his first choice and I felt unworthy. It wasn’t him, it was me. He was bringing out parts of me that needed to heal in order to elevate and the pain that I felt during that time is beyond words. I went inward. I cut my mom off for a good while. Something I had never done and it shook her. I got tired of her crawling out of closets pretending to drink fabaloso to get my attention. I got tired of her being a victim. I got tired of her threatening to kill me and my kids. I got tired of the cops coming to my house. I got tired of the trauma.
My healing journey can’t be summed up in this email but I’m grateful to have been able to share this much because it was certainly a release for me and exactly what I needed. Spirit said I needed to see something. And I did.