The hard to talk about, wish you didn't feel ashamed stuff

I remember the first time like it was yesterday, even though it was 15 years ago. 

We had gone to spend the day at Aunt Susie's house (Pam's sister) to celebrate Derek turning 14. He had been showered with gifts, and treats. The day had been pretty eventful, and I always enjoyed spending time with Aunt Susie. It was late when we got home, we lived in Riverside and she in Huntington Beach. 

Aubrey and I shared our bedroom, as well as having a guest bed across the room from our bunk beds. She slept on the bottom, I the top. We had all gone to bed, and I remember I was wearing my favorite nightgown. It was an oversized, too big, fuchsia pink thing. It had a comic strip on the front, of Minnie Mouse in the sequence of getting dolled up for the day.I also wore a necklace with a heart pendant, it was the only nice thing that I owned. I always had quite a hard time sleeping, and tonight was no different. So I was surprised when in the dead of night, after everyone was fast asleep, my door cracked open, and a shadow walked in. I heard him whisper "hey" and heard the crunch and rustle of candy wrapper in his hand. He and I were the oldest, I of the girls, and he of the boys, so we had shared a small bond over that. But never a bond that tied us that close. I peeked over the railing on my bunk, and replied with a "hey". 

            He asked if he could come up and sit with me, and thinking nothing of it, I said sure. He climbed up the ladder, and sat with his back up to the wall and just looked at me, fiddling with the candy in his hand. I wasn't allowed to have candy. I looked back at him in the darkness of my room, and asked him why he was up. He told me he had eaten too much candy, and couldn't sleep. He asked if I wanted some. I said yes, and he put the contents of his hand into a small basket on my shelf. I said thank you, and he nodded. Then he asked if I wanted to keep the candy. What? I was confused and it showed on my face, because the words that came next were a bribe, quid pro quo, tit for tat- whatever. If you want to keep the candy, you have to do something for me. ---------Why was I so stupid? I didn't need candy, I wasn't allowed anyways, and what if I got caught with it, I would never be allowed to eat it. Unless I ate it all before morning. I could do that.---------I asked him what I had to do. He told me we had to shake on it first, so I couldn't go back on my word.  Thinking I would have to clean his room, or do his chores, or keep a secret. Well I was partly right. "I want to go down on you." What? go down on me? I have to admit, even at 7 years old, I was not stupid, I knew what that meant, but why would he be asking that? That's gross! I'm a kid! He's a teenager! We are Family! But I had shaken on it. Right? I sat silently, and nodded my head. Cringing inside, he whispered for me to take off my underwear. I complied. Then he layed down, and motioned for me to do the same. (for my own personal wellness, and this being all or nothing, I am telling details, as sick as it makes me, and as sick as it may make you. Please no harsh words to me) When I layed down, he told me to straddle him, then proceeded to pick me up, and face me upside down. I silently cried. Disgusted, ashamed, hurt, betrayed. All while my little sister was in the bottom bunk, fast asleep. 

              We heard a noise in the hall, and I was quickly tossed to the mattress. He composed himself and I hugged my knees to my chest. The hall light flickered on, and my door opened, letting Pam and Bill into the room. I looked at them, wide eyed in horror and being caught like this, waiting to be yanked off the bed and beaten. I fiddled with my necklace so hard that the chain snapped from the pressure. I began to cry. Pam told Derek to get off the bed, and go to his room. I was taken to the living room. They sat me down and asked me what was going on. Would they really believe me? After all that they put me through? "No, nothing. We were just talking, and he was sharing his candy with me." Im sure it wont happen again, no point in making a big deal.  I was sent back to bed. If I thought I had a hard time sleeping before, it was never the same after that. 

              One summer, not too long after the first instance, and not to be mistaken for only the second, I was outside, and Aubrey was sitting next to me. We had a sandbox in the shape of a tug boat that had long since been drained of its sand, and now served as a wading pool in the heat of the summer. It was empty today, and the shell top lid was on. There was a plastic rope connected to it, like the kind they use as handles to picnic drink buckets. The back door opened, and Derek walked around the corner carrying his electric keyboard. That keyboard was my favorite. But he already knew that. He set it next to the tugboat and sat next to us on the concrete porch. He said he wanted to have a secret hide out/ meeting. I knew what this meant. He explained that since the tugboat was too small for all three of us, that we would have our meetings one at a time. (I want to clear up, that nothing happened to Aubrey on this day, and if anything happened to her before or after this day, I am unaware, and she has not told me about it.) She went into her "meeting" first, and I was told to play on the keyboard until it was my turn. I listened to them talk about her stuffed animals, and our neighbor who was her best friend. They weren't under the lid long, and soon the top came up and Aubrey happily clambered out. She was 4-5 at this time. My chest tightened and my heart began to pump harder to compensate for the restriction in my chest. I stepped into the boat, and lowered myself onto my back as the lid closed over us. Aubrey began to play the keys and we spoke for a minute. He told me that since he had let me play the keyboard, it was his turn for a favor. Quid pro quo again. I didn't speak, just waited for my punishment. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his disgusting extremity. He told me to touch it. I couldn't make myself, I didn't want to. I wanted to run, my stomach lurched from the need to vomit. He glared at me, getting angry. "I let you use my keyboard. I didn't have to do that. I could have let you keep doing nothing, by yourself in the yard. I was trying to be nice!" I still could not force my hand to extend to him, so he grabbed my fingers and yanked my hand, making me pet his hardness. vomit rose in my chest, but stopped short where my throat had closed up. I turned my head and closed my eyes from the scene that my hand was taking place in. I blacked out from there, because I don't remember anything after that moment. The next thing I knew, I was sitting up in the tugboat, with the lid propped against the wall. The keyboard was gone, Aubrey was gone, Derek was gone. I was alone, sitting in a pool of my own shame, and his fluids. 

       When I was eleven I was small, flat chest, hair always cut like a boy against my will. Shirts hung from me, and I wore boys jeans. I was in the backyard one day while Pam was away. She was a Creative Memories consultant and was out at a show. When she was gone, I was allowed to play in the backyard and not be confined to the porch. I still could not play with other kids, but moving from the concrete was a treat for me. I sitting on the bars of our swingset, and flipped myself upside down, making sure to hold my shirt to keep from showing off mosquito bites. The sliding door opened, and Derek walked out, cool, calm and collected. He walked up to me. "You know you don't need to hold your shirt. You have nothing there." I know, I replied, but I kept my shirt held tight. "let it go"....no...."LET it GO". I had heard this tone many many times from him, and knew that I was not going to be given an option. Defeated, I let my top fall as I hung upside down from the bars. 

      There were many times I was violated, I was raped more than once, but as gruesome as the above details were, and as tight as my throat became just writing those memories, I am not mentally in a spot to recap those awful times. This went on for 7 years 

Not allowed (continued)

When I was very young, (4-5) we had a rabbit named sunny. everyday we would take turns feeding Sunny. One day it was my turn to feed him, so I went out and gave him his cup of food. we kept him in the backyard. Later that day, Pam dragged me outside, and shoved my face towards the cage, yelling at me that I had killed their rabbit. confused and hurt I began to cry, and was spanked several times for it. She proceeded to yell at me for feeding the rabbit NEWSPAPER. I had not fed him newspaper and began to cry that I hadn't. I did feel guilty though, that in my curiosity I had put sand at the bottom of his bowl. After the death of Sunny, anytime a family pet passed, the blame was placed on me. When Finchter the bird got stung by a bee, I was the obvious culprit. when the two other rabbits they had died, one from choking on a leaf from the vines they were under, and one from heathstroke, I was the killer. It was insane. I was not an animal abuser, I loved animals, with the exception of Lacie. Lacie was a jack russel terrier/lab mix. She was a terrible dog. I was so small that this 20 lb dog was able to take me by the ankles and drag me around the backyard by my socks. I would cry about this to Pam, but all she said was don't let her. Yet if I pushed the dog, or kicked it away, She would come outside and spank me. So I never owned a pair of socks without holes or loss of elasticity while we had that dog. I have scars on my ankles from her teeth, and surprisingly, I still love dogs.

I still love rabbits, I still love birds.

I hated Holidays for the longest time. Christmas and birthdays were the worst. I am not an ungrateful person, but as a child I had a hard time when birthdays were "forgotten", and for christmas every year I recieved a pair of boys jeans because I did not deserve girls jeans. All the while, my 3 siblings had birthday parties and were showered with gifts for christmas. It was hard to swallow that as a child.

On my 13th birthday Pam took me to interview for placement in a group home. She brought my photo albums, filled with happy smiling pictures, and family trips to show what an ungrateful child I was for acting awful and being such a terrible child. I remember sitting in the waiting room with the receptionist and telling her it was my birthday. When the Lady Pam had been interviewing and been speaking with came out of the room, the lady glared at me and called me a nasty brat. Said she couldn't beleive how awful I was after they gave me everything and took me to do so many fun things. What this woman was unaware of, was that these photos were all taken either before a court date, social worker visit or family gathering. These events happened because it made me feel guilty if I told on them for the bad things. I never told the social workers because I would feel bad for tattling after my parents had been so nice and taken me to the park, or to get a toy. This woman took Pam's words to heart, and called me a nasty brat. On my birthday. One more down that I wouldn't enjoy, or want to remember. The woman denied me placement because of all the awful things that Pam told her about me. The lies that she spun were so hideous, that not even a home for troubled and dilequent teens wouldn't take me.

I am going to take a break for now. I have let out quite a bit. My head needs a break. Feel free to comment, share or message me.

Not allowed

There is a long list of things that I was not allowed to do while with my Guardians.

I wasn't allowed to:

shower myself (until I was 13 and out of their care)

play with other children

stay up past seven

go to the restroom after bedtime (NO exceptions)

come out of my room until 9am( which as time went on became later and later)

go to the restroom without permission

to watch TV

Play outside

talk to anyone

have seconds at meal time

play with animals

*go to public school

Most young kids are taught to bathe themselves at a certain age. I think baths are ok alone around 3-4, and showering alone becomes ok, shortly after that. Children are not stupid, and learn quite quickly. I on the other hand, was not allowed to shower myself, or BY myself (my sister would join me most times, as she was still being taught) until I was no longer in their care. (age 13) closer to the end, it became a burden to shower me, so one week Pam went a whole week without telling me to come take a shower. I was never allowed to ask for anything or I was reprimanded, and therefore, did not bother her for a shower, for a week. At the end of the week, I remember sitting in my place in the backyard, on the porch where I was not allowed to move from, and her coming outside and looking at me once again with the look of pure disgust. She said to me, "you stink. I cannot believe that you have gone a whole week without even mentioning a shower. How gross. Get inside." After she showered me like a child, she told me that since I had gone a full week without asking, I must not need a shower but once a week. So from then on, I was only given a shower once a week. To make up for the time in between I would slather on deoderant which eventually stained my armpits black. To this day I have discolored underarms. I was 10 when this incident occurred.

I was not allowed to play with other children either, not even my brothers and sisters. Being homeschooled, that pretty much left me alone. Because of this, my imagination had to be somewhat creative. My day went like this for many years: wake up at 7am, because my room faced the morning sun. Sit in my room for two or more hours until Pam came and let me go to the bathroom, get dressed, eat a bowl of chex, which i always tried to eat as slow as possible because that was all I would get until she decided it was lunchtime. Then I would do one of two things, I would either A. sit at the L shaped dining room table all day, or B. sit outside on the back porch, not allowed to move from it again, ALL day. Come inside for lunch, which was a bologna and mayo sandwich, every day, no exceptions. Then back outside, or continue to sit at the table. I was given my homework (if I was lucky, most days I did nothing) and then the family would join me for dinner. I was allowed one plate of what was being served, never allowed to have seconds, and if I didn't eat fast enough ( I was given 5-10 minutes) my food got taken and thrown away. Once dinner was over, I was sent to the restroom and then straight to bed. I was not allowed to go to the bathroom after my door was closed. I am quite embarrassed to let this part be known, but this is tell all or nothing. I remember a night that after i had been sent to bed I needed to use the restroom so badly. I needed to go #2. I opened my door and peeked my head out and began calling into the front of the house saying I needed to go. I should mention that the restroom was right outside my door. But had I dared to just go without permission, I would have been beated with their wooden/holed paddle. So after being told no, and to go to bed, I began to cry and insist I was not lying, and needed to go. Pam came storming down the hall, saying to go back into my room, and when I would not, she got in my face, and told me again to go back to my bed. I would not, so she advanced, tears streaming down my face as I stood there trying to hold myself together, and in my fear, my body betrayed me. my bowels released and emptied all over the floor. I began to sob harder, and louder, as a hand came across my face, and words of disgust spewed at me. I was sent back to bed, and the next day, a baby alarm was hung on the outside of my door, and if that went off, without a hitch, Pam was in my room, with the paddle.

I still was not allowed to use the restroom upon request, and after that incident my water was restricted, not just before bed, but throughout the day. I only recieved a small 8oz cup at lunch and dinner. This is when I began sneaking into the bathroom and stealing water with the cap of my deodorant. I when I was caught doing this, the permission to use the restroom wasn't enough. She would stand there and WATCH me, to make sure I didn't steal water. I was able to find other ways of getting water though. My gaurdian father was a gardener, and would back his trailer onto the side of the house, right under my window, so when everyone was sleeping at night, I would climb out of my window and steal ice from his cooler. I would put it in a sock, and while it melted, I would suck on the sock. I did this for a while, and since I was not allowed out of my room after 7pm, and not before 9am+, I would open my window, stick my butt out, and pee down the side of the wall. It disgusted me, just as it disgusted Pam when she caught me, and proceeded to beat me for it. A lock was installed on my window after that. So then when I had to go and could not hold it, I went in my closet, soaked it up with a sweater and threw the sweater to the top shelf. My room began to smell, and since Pam couldn't find the source, she assumed it was me, and began making me wash my walls with pure vinegar.

Those parts of my past, disgust even myself, but I get through the day knowing, I had no other choice.

I was never allowed to play with other children simply because Pam said I needed to learn how to play by myself first, and that in her eyes, I never had. So I was forced to go outside in our backyard and play by myself. I hated the swingset we had because it made me sick, and because I showed such an aversion to it, I was forced to swing on that swing for upwards of an hour a day, without stopping. once that was done, I had to do laps around our backyard, and then sit on the porch for the rest of the day. I remember our neighbors had a tall tree in their yard that had seeds in the shape of tear drops that would spin like a helicopter when they would fall from the tree. I loved this tree, and our backyard was filled with these little seeds all through fall. I would collect these seeds, and use sticks to crush them, a bottle cap for a bowl, and torn up leaves for salad, I would make salad for my sisters barbie dolls. I was bored out of my mind.

I remember one summer, it was so hot outside, upwards of 100* outside, and I was still made to sit out in the backyard. I was hot, and dehydrated and had to go to the restroom. All the other kids had been called inside out of the heat, and were sitting inside with the air on. It was awful. I was out in the heat from 10am-5pm that day. I was allowed in for my sandwich and promptly sent back outside into the heat. There were numerous days like this. All too similar to bother to tell each one. But summer wasn't always the worst.

As a young child, still full of memories of my mother, I would cry a lot at night. Sometimes the tears and sobs would wrack me to my core, and fill the house. On these nights, when Pam couldn't take the sound anymore, I was pushed outside onto the porch, in the dead of night, even in the pouring rain, until I could compose myself and promise I was done.

I am going to take a break here, and give another chance to stay or go...

Downhill

My gaurdian family now consisted of 6 people including myself. There were my parents Pam and Bill Elleston, and their two biological sons Derek and Keven. Myself, and their adopted daughter Aubrey. Now that you know names, this will all be less confusing.

My memories comes in bursts from now on, and my writing isn't as thought out. Please bare with me. OK, here goes!

I remember things started to feel odd around the time that Aubrey came to live with us. I remember getting in trouble for things a lot and having things taken away from me often. There was one time that Pam made a plate of PB&J sandwiches with strawberry jam. I was always told to finish my food, so when I had eaten and the other children had eaten, and there was still a whole sandwich left on the plate in the center of the table, I thought it was my job to finish it all. So I sat there and diligently ate each quarter of the sandwich, and then, when there was just one left, and I was so full of PB&J, I wanted to cry! I didn't want to get in trouble for not finishing all of it, so I thought about what I could do, and where I could hide the last piece, and then it hit me! There was an octagon shaped coffee table in the living room that no one ever looked under, because it held all of the maps we owned. PERFECT! I thought to myself, no one would find it there, and then I could go play outside!

I hid the sandwich and went outside.

A little later that day, I was called inside, and to my surprise, there was that peanut butter sandwich, sitting on the dining table, staring at me. Pam was also staring at me, and was angry. She pointed at the sandwich and asked me what it was. I said I didn't know. A lie I am sure she saw through. Why did you hide this Kayla? I didn't. Yes you did. Fine! I did, but I was full, and didn't want to eat anymore! So you hid it? Yes. well guess what, now you won't get pbj anymore. --

As long as I lived in that house, I was never allowed to have pbj and with the exception of one time. we had gotten and Orange colored jelly and when I asked what it was, they told me it was squid. I refused to eat it, so after that "second chance" I never had another peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I was 4 years old.

as a small child I have a feeling I was picky. I say this because as long as I can remember, my menu consisted of the same thing day after day. Chex cereal for breakfast, a bologna sandwich with only mayo and meat on white for lunch, and a small plate of whatever was for dinner, with the exception of sugary items. I was only allowed water and milk, and for the longest time, only pediasure in place of milk, or meals. I was never allowed to have snacks, or desserts, or sodas, which is not uncommon, and not abuse by any means. What was upsetting was that everyone else was allowed, but I was not.

I also remember the time I found out that I have a bad reaction to shredded wheat cereal. I waas about 7 years old, and went to the kitchen to find that my breakfast had changed, I was given a bowl of shredded wheat the first bite I took, went straight through me. I didn't know what to do, and I absolutely did not make it to the bathroom in time. I was so embarrassed, I had just filled my pants. Pam, outraged by the fact that I had just sat there and crapped myself, dragged me by my arm to the bathroom, and told me I had to wash out my clothes, but not to do it in the sink. She walked away, and when she came back, she found me with my hands and underwear in the toilet, cleaning them. She gave me this look I will never forget, the look of confusion and wondering of stupidity. Why was I in the toilet, she yelled, disgusted as well. I looked up and started crying, saying she had told me not to use the sink, so I used the toilet, thinking it would be easier to clean, because all I had to do was flush? Flustered and irritated she told me to grab my clothes and drop them in the trash. We wouldn't be using them anymore. I was showered and redressed (I wasn't allowed to do these things on my own, because I was told I didn't know how). Once I was redressed, I was told to go finish my shredded wheats. Only after I had made a mess of myself twice more, did she throw the bowl of cereal out, calling me disgusting and infantile as she did this. I never had shredded wheats again either.

Ready to move on?

The early days

Most of us as adults would agree, that sometimes we only remember things, because photos were taken. Those still shots in time evoke feelings, scents, emotions and memories that can pull us back to the day, the hour, the minute. I have very few photos of my toddler years, but the ones that I do have in my possession, or those that I have seen in family photo albums, stick with me, and shape the deepest parts of my memory. For a silly example, My mother once showed me a set of three photos, and anyone that knows me personally, will get a good laugh at this. The first shot is of me next to the couch at age 2- in just a babydoll shirt and a diaper. The next frame show me in just a diaper, and the next I had stripped myself of even that! Seeing these photos I was brought back to my youth, of the carelessness I felt even in the darkest times of drugs on the table, and addicts connected to them. I could laugh at these photos,  because as a child, I hated clothing, and growing up, that has never changed. That set of photos brought back happy memories, and giddy feelings, so I feel that is a good example. But I think we can all agree that not all photos bring back the rush of happiness and laughter. Sometimes even a photo that looks happy, can bring back a memory of sadness and pain from the remembrance of an event surrounding the moment of that one photo. My point in telling this, is that some of my memories come from a single photograph, and therefore have less detail then a memory pulled from my own mind.

My earliest true memory of where I was placed, is of Easter, I cannot remember if I was three or four, quite possibly it was three. I had been placed with a family with a mother, father and two brothers. This family fostered other children as well as myself, but their time there was quite short, and my memories of them do not impact my story.

In this memory I see myself, standing in the corner of the L shaped benches of our dining room table, peeking out of the slanted blinds and ivy print drapes, waving two fingers at my mother, who was standing outside, pleading with my foster mother, asking to see her baby, just for a few minutes, just in the spirit of Easter. The visit was of course, not permitted, and so my mother, dashed of her hopes, left in tears.

I believe the last time I saw my mother after this was the following Easter, and this memory, is only brought around by a photo. My mother and I are sitting in the grass, I in her lap, as she snuggles me, and holds me close, maybe not knowing it would be her last time seeing me for nine years. I framed this photo in my home, to remind me, that she has always loved me, even through her worst times.

From what I recall, I was to be adopted evenutally, after gaurdianship papers were signed, and parental rights taken away from mine. I was going to complete their family.

Quite soon after this, our family of 5 became a family of 6 when a very sick little girl came to live with us. Her name was Crystal, and she was addicted to meth at birth. Her mother was just as unfit as mine, but this little girl had much more health issues then I. By the age of 6 she had undergone multiple surgeries to correct a cleft pallet, had gone to multiple physical therapists, because the doctors thought she may never walk, and had come out quite ok from being born with an addiction she did not ask for. This little girl stole their hearts, and sadly this was not a family that had enough love to share. After Crystal came to live with us, they changed her name to Aubrey, and very quickly adopted her. There was a grand party to celebrate, and once the adoption was finalized, things turned around for me. The foster kids stopped being placed, they had found what they were looking for. I of course was already a gaurdian child, which is more permanent then foster, so I stayed. But looking back, I feel that once she became part of their family, and finalized Pam's (gaurdian mother) dream of having a little girl, I became obsolete. A mere nuisance in their home.

I will give you the chance here now to stay or go.

Overview

Now that you have hopefully read the background and disclosure, I would like to give you an overview.

I was born, January of 1990. I am the youngest of 6 girls. When I was born, my mother was a drug addict, as was her mother, and most of her family. The few that could get out, did. My mother had 3 before me, that were all taken away because of the choices that she was making. From the retelling of my older siblings, and family members that can remember those times, I was in the midst of drug houses, living in cars, walking around in a full diaper all day, and picking up food wherever I found it. I had rashes, and rotten teeth, and was quite literally ignored by the adults around me. I do not remember much from those times, but I remember enough, I think. When I was 3, my mother was quickly spiraling, and had no intention of stopping. She tells me that the day she decided that with her was not the best place to be, was when I was 3 years old, crying over something, and in her frustration, she picked me up and shook me. From her recollection, it wasn't hard, but was enough to scare her. She realized she needed to place me somewhere safe until she could clean up her act.

My Father was also a drug addict, alcoholic and criminal. Barely able to stay out of jail. I have no memories of him from that time. When my mother decided to place me somewhere safe, his parents house was the safest she could think of. Unfortunately, they did not have the means to take me in long term, from what I am told, so I was placed elsewhere. That is where my story begins.

I do not remember every detail, and some things are just still shots, or moments, but this is tell all or nothing. This is the recollection from age 3,  on.

At the end of each posting I will ask once more, for you to think for a moment, and decide if you would like to stay or go.

Background and Disclosure

I think that I need to begin by making a few things clear. This is not a pity party blog. This is not a bashing blog. This blog WILL name names. This blog WILL be hard to swallow. This blog may make you cry.This blog will contain the recall of rape, molestation, physical and mental abuse. I do know that there are MANY people that have had it worse. I will not be sugar coating things, and I want everyone to know, they have the right to stop reading at any time. I am not in any way calling myself perfect, only saying that I know what society expected me to do, and I knew I could do the opposite.

A background of this blog, where the idea came from, and what it will be about.

I am one of 6 sisters. We all have different parents. I am connected to 3 by mother, and 2 by father. This blog is mainly in connection with my maternal side. Our mother came from a scary background, full of drugs, alcohol and crime. Sadly, she fell into that life, and it affected us all. Some more than others. I am not here to tell my sisters stories, that is not my place. I am here to tell how my mothers choices affected me in my life, and how I overcame it despite the odds.

I am not positive yet, how this will be written. I may just flow with however it comes to me. I may do it in pieces. I would like to know who is reading this blog, and ask that you click FOLLOW on the upper right corner. You are not obligated to comment, and like I said earlier, you are welcome to leave at anytime.

My reason for posting my story is to hopefully help others to realize, it can always get worse, and that no matter what life throws at you, you always have the choice to do better. Feel free to comment as you please, keeping my feelings in mind. Feel free to share this blog with others, as I would like to reach as far as I can with these words, and help as many as possible.