|
||
|
|
||
| PAPERBACK BOOKS | ||
PREFACE MCS
can start many ways. One lady may work at a factory; another could use a washing
detergent. This is my story. I've
tried to write this book many ways. None
pleased me. I was writing to everyone else’s expectations, not my own. How can
I write a book that captures my essence unless I write it my way?
Although
the book may not compare to my literary heroes, V. C. Andrews or Booth
Tarkington, it will depict who I am. I'd rather fail as myself, than succeed
being someone else. S. BG Chapter 1
Before
the Accident
I'll
begin before the accident because the person inside is who counts. I grew up
in a semi-country area where everything was happy. Weekends were spent among
tree branches with my brother. I played Legos, and he made friendship bands, and
we played dolls. We would sneak enough sweets to make us sick, sing to our
favourite cassettes while on the swings every Sunday morning, and play-fight on
the family room floor on the days unfit for garden settings. At
school, I was alone with my books. I was too gruff to fit in with the girls. The
boys wouldn't play with me because I was a girl. I spent
most of my childhood with my brother, who lead the boys to play with me later. My
brother remained in primary school when I started junior high school. Without
him I had to push out bravely from my security to mix with others. A younger
brat, whom I believed powerful, bullied me at school. His slap across my face
with a pencil case and the acid on my seat were worth the price to hold onto my
individuality. His round face, twisted with cruel satisfaction while I gained
strength to stay myself, even though it didn't appear so then. Where is he now?
Wherever, he probably has a long string of victims or has been put to
shame and become one himself. In year
eight, an older girl named Tahnee told everyone I was her cousin because she
didn't want initiations to befall me. Next I met Tara's group, who were the same
as I, and they accepted my horse play and attitude. Adoring Tara presented me
with a friendship bracelet to remind me of our friendship before I went away. My
parents moved because nearby places reminded my father of his almost-fatal car
accident. I started the new school with little distress since my brother
attended, also. I didn't fit in with the popular kids, so rebelled, stripping my
hair of its colour, as an outward sign to others who wished me flat. The
white-blonde hair was a stark change to my original brown. I was a boisterous,
curvy girl of five foot five, whom most peers thought deserved no respect. Together,
my brother and I befriended other kids who didn't want to change to fit the required
shape grouping instilled. My new friends included a girl with cerebral
palsy, who was picked on, a girl with a cancerous lump above her ear, girls who
dated and were called filthy names, and boys who wouldn't bully others to look
cool. In all of
these new friends, I found beautiful people cowering underneath. We spent most
of our lunchbreaks defending ourselves and each other. As a group, the bullying
felt like a mosquito bite, rather than half-torn apart when alone. In senior
high school, leaving my younger friends and brother behind, some girls my age
were kind to me. I was liked for whom I was, and my colourful stories kept them
entertained. If there was a list for embarrassing moments, I would have been at
the top! I was always falling over or saying something at the wrong time. One girl,
Sally, didn't like the attention grabbed. She wanted the focus. My stubbornness
and Sally's silent jealousy resulted in a blow-up that surprisingly helped her
understand me. At the height of personality clash, she saw her faults and my
objection to them. In an instant our likeness were what caused our peace instead
of conflict. It takes a tiger to truly understand another tiger! I was a
very bright girl without any confidence in my abilities. A terrible teacher for
Maths had chiselled away at my faith. People with doubts concentrate on those
and not the task. I would cry over my books, trying to understand the exercises
he'd never fully explain. It was so difficult to keep my A grade when the
teacher didn't try to teach me. When I asked questions, he'd say, "You can
figure that out for yourself." My friend, Callie, who didn't like the
teacher either, taught me. Why am I
telling you this? People say I'm an inspiration now I'm an adult.
Maybe I'm tough now but I wasn't in high school. Although I was happy, my
life wasn't without problems. After our
before-school discussion, my friends and I walked as a group to home group and
split off as we got to our classes. This was always the most entertaining part
of the day. Pupils stared, pointed, and laughed because I dressed unusual.
Amused to see pants worn under skirts, patterned leggings and stockings, bright
lacy blouses, big boots, and chunky costume jewellery. During
high school I changed during several events. The first was meeting Jack, who
took my heart to a new level. The second happened in my fifteenth year, when I
went through an abusive relationship. While I moped for Jack, a scoundrel found
me. Such
sweetness and romance this actor showed, reeling me in. On the third date he
attacked: put-downs, threats to stop me leaving him, the blackmail to sleep with
him. I'd
always scoffed at women in abusive relationships, yelling at the TV, "Just
leave him!" Not anymore. He scared me with his threats, even the one to
kill himself. No matter what I said to the contrary, I couldn't leave him. When
he told me I was ugly, fat, stupid, or wearing the wrong clothes, I couldn't
hear the voice inside me saying, "He's wrong." I
remember every detail of our phone conversation on the November day that clarity
appeared. Some girls at school had picked on my clothes. Needing support, I told
him. Wrong! "I agree with them," he began. "You wear
too much colour when you should wear more black and white. You've seen the
photos of my ex -- dress like that. Cut your hair the same as hers. Of course,
you won't be as pretty until you lose some weight." I turned
around to look into the mirror of my dressing table. What he said faded into the
background and I thought, I don't see
ugly. I just see me. That
night we had a date. Just another night to be treated as his prisoner. He
arrived in his aloof manner just after seven. Once we were in private, the fiend
broke from his gentle capsule. My body was given over to him, for refusing would
cause verbal beating. There I lay, silent in the dark, not allowed to move, so
he could think of his ex-girlfriend. He said it was the only way he could stand
to be with me. The slightest movement or noise caused a fight, which always
happened. The light
turned on and he glared. I was the complete opposite to her - that's what
angered him most. Our arguments were never yelling level, but his fierce tone
was just as cruel.
"You aren't supposed to move. She never moved," he scolded me.
"I'm sorry. What that girl at school said to me today really upset
me and I don't feel like it tonight."
"How can you expect me to support you? You know I've got things to
worry about. It's your job to help me,"
he told me. I turned
over crying, my body shaking with hurt. "This is a relationship, and I want
support, too." He had no
interest in my suffering. "I have no sympathy for you! You're meant to care
for me, not yourself, you selfish .
. ."
"I can't help who I am! I'm sick of being her! Why can't you like me
for who I am?" I asked.
"Stop crying! You know not to cry in front of me. You aren't going
to blackmail me that easily."
"Blackmail you?!"
"It's not my fault you aren't slim or don't know how to dress. You
aren't going to get sympathy from me."
"Don't you love anything about me?" I waited as he looked over
my size-ten figure critically.
"Maybe I'd like your legs if they weren't so fat," he commented
in his vile tone. I cried
even more. He touched my shoulder to turn me over, and I wondered if this was
the beginning of change. Maybe he had seen his errors, and we would begin a real
love. Instead
he kissed me silently before continuing. I was expected to stay still and take
it, a chore I often endured after an argument. This time the light stayed on,
against usual practice. He insisted the light be off, so he could cover my
identity with the imagination of her. I felt
emotionally exhausted from fighting, and my eyelids grew heavy.
"That's right. Fall asleep!" he hissed, waking me up.
"Thanks for the encouragement!"
"I was just closing my eyes to enjoy it," I lied. Instead
of yelling, he got up and dressed. Some women might have found this upsetting,
but to me it was a regular occurrence. Once he was satisfied, he dressed and
left. I fell
asleep, relieved because I had learned to defend myself. I realised he didn't
love me. He loved the power he had over me. Sooner or later he would begin to
punch me as he did his computer or furniture. I had to get out. Though I
considered possible horrid consequences, leaving him was easier than I thought.
There, too, I learned another lesson. I
immediately told my parents. They hadn't known of the abuse and most of it was
happening under their roof. They agreed with my decision. When I
confronted him, instead of an abusive conflict, he revealed his powerless side.
He said he wanted to split because he'd met someone else. What a convenient way for him to win! He was
less powerful than I ever thought.
"What happened?" my parents asked when I finished the phone
call. "Did he fight to keep you? Did he threaten you?" I sighed
in relief. "No. He said he met someone else." My mum
thought for a moment. "But I thought you said he was having it off with a
friend of his before this?"
"He was, but he says that's the reason he's leaving. I think it's
because I stood up to him." Near the
end of the school year, I had time to reflect what had happened. I didn't feel
shame and disgust. I'd had classes at school about abuse. I knew it wasn't my
fault, except for not having the strength to leave sooner. I'd found inner
strength, which I harvested over the holidays. The
following school year was easier. I'd learnt to be happy with my identity and to
defend that. I still had my friends, and I was adding new ones. Maybe they'd
finally seen my charm. My only
disappointment with the new year was another class with that Maths teacher.
After two months of him, the deputy principal found me crying about it to my
friends. The woman was well acquainted with me, having me in her Ancient Studies
class.
"What's wrong?" she asked my friends. I
swallowed a sob to answer. "I'm not going to class."
"Why not?"
"Mr. P. is too much for me."
"What does he do?"
"He always lectures me about my confidence, and I'm sick of it. I
ask for the flippin' answers, and I get his lectures about confidence."
"When do you have him next?"
"Now, but I'm not going. Punish me for wagging if you want, but I'm
not going." The
motherly woman was surprised at my unusual outburst of insolence. “I'll give
you a pass to the library,” she said, “but I want to see you about this
later." The
deputy principal took me out of English later that day for our discussion.
"What is going on?" she asked.
"Why don't you ask him how I am as a student? You'll see the
problem."
"I want to hear your side," she said simply, looking straight
at me. Calmer, I
explained. "I had him last year, and he caused me nothing but
trouble," I said, remembering the tears shed in the dusty classroom.
"Every time I put my hand up for an answer, he came over and gave me a
lecture. I want a math formula, not his opinions. He thinks I know the answer
but forget, lacking confidence. You had me for Ancient Studies. You know I have
enough confidence."
"Maybe you misunderstood?" she offered.
"You can see for yourself. Ask him what I'm like as a student, and I
guarantee he'll start talking about my confidence levels within five
minutes." The next
time she asked to see me, she changed my schedule. He must have shown his true
colours. Rosie was
part of my next lesson. She was a passionate, talkative person, much like
myself. Fellow students thought her boyfriend Patrick was perfect for Rose. I'd been introduced to him once.
Rose and
Patrick split up, though nobody was told. When he called me for a date, I was
dumbfounded. He had used my birthday as an excuse to ring. Patrick, better known
as Pat, and I arranged to go to the beach together the next afternoon. On the
way to Chemistry, the day after our beach rendezvous, Telia nudged me.
"How'd the date go?"
"Shhh," I replied. "We don't want Rosie to know, or it'd
hurt her feelings."
"She already knows. I wouldn't have given him your number unless I
thought Rosie would be okay with it."
"How come you gave it to him anyway?"
"He came over specifically to ask for it. Him and Rosie broke up two
months ago, so I thought it was about time he began to date again." Rosie
confronted me the next day at school, her friend Peta with her. "I heard
you're dating Pat."
"What?" I asked, looking at her puzzled. Rosie
nodded her head to friends as we walked past them. "Don't pretend. I know
all about it. You don't have to protect me."
"We've only gone out twice."
"I don't mind if you date him. He likes you."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"You weren't the reason we broke up."
"I thought you'd feel weird around a classmate dating your ex." Rosie
laughed; Peta too. "You know Peta's boyfriend? I used to date him before
she did. We constantly swap guys!" I smiled.
"I'm glad there aren't any bad feelings, but I'll be sure not to talk about
it in your company." Patrick
and I started dating openly. He picked me up from school; and it was known that
I belonged to him. Rosie's friends called out boyfriend
stealer in the school halls. Telia
told them she gave Patrick my number and encouraged him. "If Sea were a
boyfriend stealer, she would have gotten his number and called him herself;
she's not sneaky." Rosie
should have corrected them, but she would walk with them and pretend it wasn't
happening. These labels angered me. I wouldn't want a man who didn't choose to
be with me! I told them so, but it didn't stop. To my
family and friends, my dating again was a good sign. They didn't see what I saw
in black-haired bony boy. Patrick did thoughtful things like arrange picnics and
take an interest in the things I did. Maybe his nice features meant more to me
after my ex's abuse.
|
||||||||||||
| All
Prices in Australian Dollars CURRENCY
CONVERTER
(c)2005 Poseidon Books All rights reserved. |
