Eunice, New Mexico

Eunice New Mexico We landed in another town, a small rural place in New Mexico where there were only a few hundred residents. However, with my rebellion against the abusive behaviors put strain on my Father to restrict me, and make it where I was unable to escape. We lived in a small trailer, and he boarded up the window to the bedroom where I was to stay. When I had my period he managed the use of sanitary pads, and would check them to make sure they were soaked before giving me a new one. He would also insist on looking in toilet to see how heavy my period was. My younger sisters Celeste and Aimee were allowed to go to public school. I was forced to not go to school, not learn, and no education or social experiences because they would always result in me telling teachers what was going on at home. Innately I knew that my Father wasn’t smart, my mother was depressed, and that abuse was dismissed as me being so untamed or disobedient. The insults, emotional damage was so deep I cried almost every day while trying to explain how I felt to these people raising me as their own. It was humiliating having my father control my period pads. There were no boards on the windows of the living room. There was a photo of me on the wall, where I felt pretty. A photograph taken by my father. It had been removed from the wall as punishment. He said he couldn’t even get a job to support our family because he was too busy having to try and control me. So, he didn’t work. I did escape a couple of times, but was caught and drug home in a headlock, and hit (“spanked” so harshly with belts/hangers/switches that I had bloodied legs where the flesh was broken. I was 14. I had been caught calling social services to report my parents. When this happened, my parents moved so they didn’t have to deal with the government telling them how to raise their children. This was decades ago. I just got back from a vacation where my *unnamed sister (5 of us) said my parents did the best they could with their circumstances. She said she did best she could with her circumstances too, and I still do not believe that. I didn’t hit my daughter. I didn’t throw her, strangle her, or board up her windows so she couldn’t escape. I did the best I could. I was not a perfect mother myself, but never ever did I abuse my daughter in the name of “It’s what I knew”. I also didn’t excuse the abuse. I forgave, but never forgot. I forgave but still remember. I forgave but didn’t excuse. I forgave with the action of spending weeks alone with my father to care for him when others couldn’t. I forgave by not arguing with him that entire trip. But this time seeing my father was different. My sister felt it was important to protect my dad from speaking to me, and during most of her confronts, I reacted loudly. Do I still love my parents? I do. My sisters? I do. And that is why it still hurts. My sister said that they parents just trying to teach me right from wrong but that also is not the truth. They were breaking the law by hurting me. I knew it was wrong and was tired of being hurt. I told everything I could to social services that I knew felt wrong. I “told” on my parents and am still the one made wrong for it years later. Family believes I made things up. I didn’t have to. My sister said “daddy was just trying to keep you safe from hanging on the corner with black boys” which I have no recollection of, but even if I had hung out talking to some new friends and chit chatting- to a young human deemed “dangerous’ because of their race or religion is ignorant and callous. My older sister who was not living at home and was an adult when I showed up, believes I lied to social services when they came and removed me, and the state permanently removed me from their home from 14-18 years old. Two of my younger sisters remained. One was terribly abused and still has deep scars. The other found religion to protect her and give her reason to forgive and forget. Especially forget. After group homes and foster fails I agreed to go back with my my dad and family and they kidnapped me from the State group home outside Eunice that I was in during the night. I was now in Hobbs, fifteen minutes away from the smaller town of Eunice, New Mexico. There were so many tumbleweeds toppling across the tan town that even fried burritos from a gas- station felt like a special night out. I felt free. I felt shame. I wanted to be someone new. I felt guilt for tearing apart a family and my parents refused any parenting classes and instead were leaving town again. But without me, so I went too. They drove to Utah to join a new cult, and I remained there when they were kicked out of the cult for being antagonistic with others. I stood at the car when they got ready to leave. My two younger sisters Celeste, and Aimee were tearful, and so was the mother that adopted me after I was left at her headshop at only three days old by my biological mother. My dad spent most of their marriage yelling at her, cutting her down, and keeping her in unhealthy instable environments from lack of money and other ailments, another being that my Dad has been hit in the head or concrete too many times from his own seizures or his brother J.D. punching him throughout his life. My Fathers own trucker Dad abandoned him and JD (and sisters) while addicted to meth. They left me because I wanted to stay in a house that was beautiful. I slept in warmth, not without heat. I wore clean clothing. I took a shower or bath every day. I wore deodorant, perfume and makeup and also could shave my legs. They left me because I would rather be raped by a 67 year old pedophile than to be hit, or emotionally abused more by my father. For me, the control he had to have over me resulted in me wanting to either be dead, or sell my soul to the devil to be free and have all of my dreams come true. My dreams of being dressed up, on a stage, with an audience, feeling beautiful, strong, and fierce. I would of done anything just to get away, even if it meant I would go to hell for it. This belief I had been taught of going to hell if you kill yourself didn’t help keep me alive, the grace of God did. I tried to check out. But there were other plans. Eventually I was removed from the cult and sent back into state foster care where I stayed until I was 17. By then I had been abandoned, beaten by a father who feels his Priesthood makes him better than others, emotionally abused, raped by a men and several adult women, and had begun my addiction to anything to ease my feels. Because being me hurt. Being in my body and made wrong for so many parts of myself hurt. Being rejected and misunderstood hurt. I had a moment to not be part of the family I was part of. I went to public high school and studied popularity, beauty products, drugs and boyfriends who said “I love you” a lot. I had a Foster mother who had my features, so no one asked if she was even my mom or not. They just assumed she was my mom, and that I had been away at some fancy boarding school but now I am back. I made friends with the popular party girls. I never mentioned to any of them that I had any concerns or worries outside the normal teenage things. I talked about things like note-passing, smoking cigarettes, or how to use hair gel to get your hair to stick straight up and stay. For one brief moment, even if it was in my imagination, I felt like a normal teenager. I had no danger of being hurt in the home. It felt confusing. I tested my foster mom to see how far I could push her just to know if she would throw me out. She didn’t. Being set apart hurt. And knowing that even today, even knowing how much happened to me as a result of many adult inflictions put on me. Family members will still chalk this up to me being the adopted troubled one, the drama queen, the one who “is never wrong, just ask her.” The one who has to be the center of attention. The one who wants to be normal more than she ever possibly could be. Yet, I’m still the one who is too sensitive, too emotional, too much.