Hey, Do You Want to Know EVERYTHING About ME?

Read this shit, soooonn.

WARNING: Depressing Story Alert

The “Real” McCoy
Ever since I was three I've wanted to go to college. I didn't even know what college was back then, but I knew I wanted to go. Now that I'm finally here, and have been asked to write this personal narrative, I think it's finally time to share my real story. See, I've always had an issue with writing these narratives, because I always felt that my story was too intense for normal high school classrooms. It probably was. I've never written in the way I plan to now. Earlier this week I wrote an essay about why I don't smoke pot. It’s something that defines me – yes, but it's all just a load of crap. It's a cover for a girl who can't get over her own tragedies. There's one point in time that defines me more than anything, and after years of misery, I think it's finally time for me to move on. I want to use my story for some good in the world. I want to move on so I can live my life as a happy person - not normal, for I'd hate to be considered normal, but a happy person who can enjoy the world as I once used to.
My story starts at the age of four. I was a happy little blonde kid causing mischief, sneaking over to my friend's house, and just basically living life. I was far too little to understand, or merely notice the chaos of my parent's relationship deteriorating before my very eyes. There are two key things that stick out in my mind when I recall being four - the Power Rangers, and the night we left for Missouri. Apparently, something so horrible had happened between my mother and father that my Mom decided to throw my brother, Waylon, and I out a window. We only had the clothes on our backs, but we had a train to catch. We were going to see Uncle Andy, it was a surprise vacation. I still do not know what happened between them to this day. Both of my parents tell me lies about each other, so who am I to believe?
When we got home from Missouri my father had apparently said that my mother had molested my brother on the trip. He'd called CPS, and then used some law crap to make us come back to California. I don't believe that my mom did that to my brother, and I never will. Either way, CPS came to meet us at the train station, and they took us away. I went to a family of misfits, a foster home - I knew nobody there, I was scared, I was alone. I just wanted to go home. The worst part was that they took my brother, who could not have been more than two or three years old to a different home, and he was sick. I remember lying on that foreign bed and crying every morning at breakfast. I didn't understand anything. Even though I can only remember two details, I would have to say those two weeks were the longest of my life.
After my mother was cleared of any wrongdoings to my brother, we were released to her custody. We left west Sacramento and ended up in a women's shelter. I don't remember anything about that place except that it was blue like the sky, and that some nice lady had given me a blanket. I still have that blanket. It's worn and tattered, much like my life, but it does its job.
After the women's shelter we moved into apartments, and about six months later we moved into a duplex across the street from Williamson Elementary School. Since my brother and I were much too young to understand the ordeal we had been through, we were both enrolled in school and started our lives out much like any other kids. We just didn't have a dad. I believe I was more interested in my favorite color or what I wanted for my birthday than my father, though. It was like that part of our lives had never existed.
The reason why my brother and I lived normal lives during our younger years was the fact that my mom had a boyfriend. His name was Larry, and he looked more like my brother and I than our own mother did. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, just like us. As far as we knew, Larry was our father. I don't remember much from elementary school besides the fact that it was a fun happy time in my life. I was a hyper kid who just liked to play tag with the boys.
My happiness continued through middle school, I succeeded in just about every aspect of school, and I had a wonderful group of friends. I decided to join track in the sixth grade, and I put absolutely all my effort in being the best I could be. That doesn't mean I was good, I just tired really hard. My aunt was a coach and I wanted to make her proud. See, I just tried so hard that I physically wore myself out. I would walk home, sometimes limp home, and just fall asleep on the couch.
Sounds pretty normal right?
Since Larry was basically my dad, he sometimes offered to massage my feet or legs or something so I'd feel better. Of course I thought nothing of it - and nobody ever would, but sadly the world is a little more fucked up than that. These "massages" turned into something quite different; something that I didn't understand, something that my brother was sent to bed early for. I had always thought I got to stay up later because I was older. It's a damn shame that I was so ignorant. To put it frankly - my father molested me. Now, shit happens. I know it does, but usually things don't continue on for a year. Almost every day I came home from track, things happened. It started to happen when I went to sleep too. I slept on the top bunk and he was really tall, so I guess it was easy.
All I knew at that time was that I was happy. I had a Dad, and I didn't care.
There's one very odd thing about all these happenings - where the hell was my Mom? My Mom was diagnosed with Hepatitis C when I was in the sixth grade. She had to give herself shots twice a day, and continue working. The shots made her basically unable to pay attention to anything. She did a lot of sleeping during that year. Luckily, she is now cured of Hepatitis C.
One day, August 15th, if I remember correctly, I decided that I didn't want to do the dishes. My Mom was on her computer, doing whatever she did on that at the time. She was a tad annoyed with me, because of course, the dishes were the most important thing in the world and they had to be done right then. Larry stormed out of the bedroom and said something to the extent of, "Do the God damned dishes, you little bitch." I instantly started crying, and not your normal sixth grader tantrum. I was bawling my eyes out. I eventually stopped, did the dishes, and went to my room.
My aunt was having a party that day, and of course I had to go. I don't really like my aunt's house, it's always full of cat hair, and I didn't really have the most pleasant of mornings. A few minutes after arriving, I couldn't help but crying. I didn't even know why I was crying. My Mom and my aunt took me to the side and asked me what was wrong, as usual family members do. My Mom was sort of upset that Larry had called me a bitch and asked me about that. I remember nodding my head, and just crying more. More and more, for some reason that I didn't understand. She asked me if anything else had ever happened, and my world just shattered. In that single instant, my world of perfect bliss turned to chaos and regret. I told my Mom what had happened. The party afterwards was very interesting, and all I can remember is sitting on my aunt's bed, thinking about how awkward it was being in her room. I heard a few noises, a door slam, and then my aunt came into her room to tell me, "He's gone."
Nobody really spoke of it again after that day. We stayed the night at my aunt's, I was asked some rather awkward questions, and a few weeks later I visited a doctor to make sure everything was okay with my body physically.
Everything was okay, physically.
I decided not to press charges, which is the one decision that I regret more than anything in the world when I look back on my life. I would have loved to send the bastard to jail if I had the chance now, but at that time all I wanted was closure. I didn't want to go through a whole trial and be asked even more awkward questions by people I didn't even know.
I still thought of this person as my father - the one who was supposed to protect me. It took me a while to even realize what had happened. I had only told my Mom because I was so upset about being called a bitch. That's it. I was a happy 13 year old, why would I change that?
All of that was the summer before the 8th grade started, but surprisingly, I continued living in a world of bliss. The 8th grade, to this day, was one of my favorite years of school. It took me a while to understand, and I think it took so long because I couldn't accept that the one person I trusted the most in the world had done something horrible to me. It didn't make sense; the world was a happy, good place, where good things came to good people.
Goodness was I a silly little girl.
I spent most of my freshman year as a normal teenager again. I had a boyfriend, Greg Will, who was amazing, I had good grades, I had good friends, I was just missing that Dad thing again, but it was no big deal. I was happy.
This bliss continued until about my junior year. Greg and I had been dating for a good two years, and we were both about 16. 16 year olds in high school who have been dating for two years are thinking about one thing - and one thing only - sex. We both wanted it. We started getting intimate, and all that fun stuff, but when Greg touched me, my head started to hurt. I felt faint, and sick. I asked him to stop - and he did because he is the best damn guy in the world. Greg had known what happened to me, but he didn't understand it. He didn't understand why I couldn't do something I really wanted to do. He didn't understand why I cried, and why I felt sick. I didn't even understand. He was always privileged. He always had everything he needed. He'd never experienced my pain. He told me that sex wasn't important, and that he loved me. Good lord was he a good boyfriend. He said he'd wait until I was ready.
Then a year went by, and we had made a new friend named Jon. Now, this guy did not look intelligent, but he could read a person like a girl on a diet reads nutrition facts. He asked Greg one day, "How can you go out with someone for three years and not have sex?" Greg had told me what happened, and I just shrugged. I didn't know. He didn't know. Ever since that day, our relationship just started dying. It had cancer. I stressed about not being ready for sex, and he stressed about me being stressed. I hate vicious cycles. They're incredibly vicious. We spent the rest of senior year together, because breaking up at the time would have been too much to handle. We wanted to experience Senior Ball and Sober Grad Night as ourselves, and by ourselves I mean together as the couple we always had been in high school. We were never apart, ever. Some people even considered us the same person.
Soon after Graduation, on June 15th, I broke up with Greg. The relationship was just so much stress that I believed it was unhealthy for us to try anymore. It really was, because even though I cried every night for about a month, I had an incredible weight off my back. I didn't have to pressure myself to have sex anymore. The thing was, all of my friends from high school were based off of mine and his relationship. I felt it was much too awkward to hang out with anyone, and I didn't want to talk about what had happened. Last summer I was a hermit. I spent most of my summer thinking about what had happened between Greg and I, why it happened, and life in general. It was the longest summer of my life, and I don't know if I will ever have one longer.
Now, I come from a family notorious for smoking pot, drinking, dropping out of school, all that junk. As soon as I figured out what happened to me, I should have probably gone off the deep end. Just about anything would have been good: weed, alcohol, anything to make the pain go away. God, growing up is such a bitch. But, ever since I realized how much I didn't want to be like my family, I've refused to do anything of that sort. I had to find solace in something else in this world.
I've been playing the Viola since the fourth grade. Music has always been in my life and I think it is just about the best thing in this world. When I finally figured out why I couldn't love the person I loved more than anything, music was my drug. Music cured my pain, music made it all go away. I was never actually that great at playing anything though, so I decided because I wasn't that fabulous at making music that I would try to support my orchestra with everything I had. I did so many things that I would have never done. I walked, in the rain, for a half hour, to work a 6 hour shift, on my period, to serve some bitchy lady complaining about melted butter, for free. I loved my orchestra. I worked so hard my Senior Year to make sure every single person in that class understood what magic music really was. I like to think that I accomplished that goal, or at least made them appreciate orchestra a whole lot more!
Because of what happened to me, I grew to be a very shy person with very tall walls made of brick, reinforced with steel, and then a layer of some other worldly material that would be impossible to destroy on this planet.
My Senior Year, I had a small schedule conflict so I ended up taking AP French in a French II class. The people I met in that class - Kenny, Crissy, Sara, Martin, Irina, Anna, and Patrick all helped me tear some of those reinforced walls down. They were absolutely the most accepting and wonderful people in the world, and I hope they know how much they mean to me. They have no idea how simple acceptance and friendship can literally change someone's life. They were my drugs, too.
Now that I'm at UC Santa Cruz, I feel that nothing can stop me. These walls of mine are tumbling down, and even the gravel piles that remain afterwards will soon be shipped off. My life has seriously been fucked up, but I've made it. I did this, all on my own. Many people would ask, "what about your Mom?" Well, my Mom, after this incident with Larry, well, we never had the same relationship again. She cried for months afterwards. I've always felt that she believes that I was lying, and that it's my fault that she's now single. I don't believe that her unhappiness in life is my fault, but the idea that my Mom basically secretly resents me hurts. I know that's not true either - because she is my mother, but I can't help but feel that way. My Mom has rarely ever been there when I needed her the most mentally, but she has always been there for me physically, and I can never thank her enough for that. Nobody has ever been there for me mentally when I needed them the most. I'm a lone ranger, and I've accepted that. The only person I can count on is me. What doesn't kill me will only make me stronger.
When I think of my story, I think of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, or the other countless stories of misery. Many shitty things happen to a lot of people. I know that. I'm not trying to sob, I don't want attention, but I want people to know me for who I am, and my story. I am tired of hiding behind shame. I am proud that I have come this far in life on my own - no drugs, no nothing, just me. I still think of Larry as my father today, but instead of what happened, I just like to think he is dead. It lets me keep the good memories in my heart, because when he was my Dad, he was the best damned Dad on the planet. I'd also like people to know that there is good in life. There is good in peoples' smiles, their hearts, and their words. I'm not a pessimistic person, I'm just a realist. Not everybody is a bad person, but when it comes down to it, you're on your own, so be prepared. I have learned so much about myself in such a short amount of time, and if I am able to read these words out loud, I believe that I can move on, after five years of living in my own personal hell. I will move on, I am moving on. This is my story and it will be a damned good one, because I call the shots. Nobody will ever dictate my life again, and I will press on like the trooper I am. Life is a bitch, but only if you let it knock you down.