Another bit of angsty past... :S Just unloading again.
I promise at some point I'll unload good, happy news on ya'll.
More and more I want to start a career writing, I want to go to college for it and actually learn how to communicate my thoughts effectively. I want to share my experiences, as well as weave stories to captivate an audience. I start writing about my experiences every few months, I title it, I plan it out, I think about it... But when I begin to write I get scared, doubtful, and end up quiting.
Part of this is I am still horribly afraid of my mothers words. Ridiculous, isn't it? I remember when I was sixteen, after the police were involved in our lives yet again, my mother decided on a cruel punishment to ensure I would learn my lesson. She decided I should have a room. The shelter I went into to escape my family, it already had a broken door that would not stay shut, but that was not enough. She moved just my mattress into the "Glass room".
The glass room was a room that was added onto the home by the previous owner, and I am not sure how it managed to pass an inspection! The wires were not grounded, so there was a free running current through the entire room. Particularly, a hanging lamp that if you placed a hand on it you could -feel- the current. Not a quick pop of static charge, but a long and continuous flow of electricity coursing through it. ((A very odd experience.))
Not only was this room frightening because of the electric charge, it didn't have a working door either! It was named the glass room because it had a sliding glass door, and the track for it was broken. As often as not it would get stuck, and refuse to budge. Even when the door DID manage to close, it was ten feet of glass, and the so-called curtains shielded nothing from the eyes.
Further still.... It was where we kept the dogs at night, in their kennels. Five whiny, barking dogs who would tear the entire room apart when they were let in. They would track mud and dirt everywhere, including all over my mattress ((Not a bed, just a mattress)) and blanket before I managed to get them in their cages. Worst than that, they all had flees. I'd sleep on the mattress, sneaking over to turn on the heater at night, since the room add-on had one of its own. Come morning I'd turn it off again, and make sure my parents didn't know it was on.
And, I wrote about it all in a journal I kept. I explained how awful it was to have to have to stay in there, especially since I was trying to keep myself from being violated by my brother! ((Is there a worst punishment on Earth for someone who is being sexually assaulted?! Whether you believe them or not... Excessive.)) It was awful to have to sleep in grime and wake up smelling like the dogs, itchy and miserable. It was awful to have to change in a corner hoping that I was hidden from the view from the door. It was awful that the bathroom door was broken so I couldn't even feel safe taking a shower in the morning! Standing with one foot holding the door shut while I tried to clean myself with soap, a washcloth, and the sink. Going to school and having to endure the mocking of teenagers who believed I was a slob who didn't care to keep clean, and would actively try to see if they could break me down into tears, which they sometimes did. It was not as if I had chosen to live like that.
So, I unloaded everything in my journal, which I kept in my backpack. I described in detail how I felt and why the actions were wrong, and incredibly stupid. My mother found it. The first thing she did was call up a relative to laugh about it, while I stood in the corner. "Flees? Can you believe she said that?! It's winter!" "Can't take a shower? HA! Doug hasn't done shit to her, she's just a greedy little attention whore who will do anything to be in the spotlight." Whenever I'd try to protest she'd grab a computer wire from off the desk, and lash me with it until I had my face buried in the corner, my hands over my head. Then she'd go back to the phone. "No, I had to pop her to keep her quiet. All that noise? She's just being overly dramatic, she knows you're on the line and is acting like she's dying."
After that... I never really wrote about the experiences, not in detail again. I keep thinking... What if she reads it? If it was ever published she'd go to the magazines, pointing out my every flaw, defacing me, making light of everything that makes my stomach twist to remember. I know she would.